Love, dogs and the future

    Valentine’s Day—roughly two weeks in—he told me he loved me. That he was in love with me. I said I felt the same, though in hindsight, I wasn’t there yet. I was falling, not landed. I was caught in the intensity of it all—the attention, the promises, the certainty with which he spoke about us. I was in lust, mesmerized by who he said he was, by everything he said he wanted to do for me, for us.

Any time I expressed concern, stress, or asked how we would handle a real issue, he had the same answer: “We’ll figure it out together. That’s part of the deal.” Nothing was ever a big problem to him—at least not when it came to the relationship. He had a way of making me feel like I was overreacting, like my instincts were unnecessary because everything would always be fine.

He constantly professed his love—how much he loved me, loved what we were building, how we could work through anything. Our days were filled with flirty text messages, lunchtime phone calls, and evenings at his house, sitting outside by the fire with Nora, Gracie, and Penne—his chihuahua curled close. Weekends were for hiking with the dogs, dinners out, and planning a future that felt tangible and shared.

We talked about trips—state parks, national parks, visits to both our families, tropical places meant only for rest and joy. One of our biggest conversations was about traveling somewhere warm and beautiful to spread my mom’s ashes. Somewhere tropical. Somewhere with bungalows over the water. A place she had always dreamed of going.

We talked about my mama often—her cancer, how I spend her birthday, the day she died, Mother’s Day. Those conversations felt sacred. I trusted him with my grief, with the most tender parts of me.

I could never have imagined that one day, he would use those very conversations against me—weaponizing my loss in a way meant not just to hurt, but to devastate.