That evening, Maya’s mother arrived—eyes tired, purse slipping off one shoulder, guilt written in the way she said hello too quickly.
She froze at the doorway when she saw her daughter smiling for the first time in days, one hand resting lightly on the head of a strange dog.
“He’s from the therapy program,” Elena explained before the apology could form. “He just… stayed.” The mother nodded, tears making her mascara surrender in quiet streaks.
“You can sit,” Maya told her, patting the bed like she owned the place. “He won’t bite. He knows things.”
Her mother laughed—a cracked sound that turned into crying halfway through. Benny shifted his weight and placed his paw on her knee, bridging two kinds of broken.
The three stayed like that—mother, daughter, dog—until the hospital lights dimmed and the world shrank to a circle of breathing and beeping.
In the hallway, Elena filled out her rounds report and wrote, *Room 314: resting comfortably.* What she didn’t add was *because the dog refused to leave.*
Sometimes healing doesn’t wait for paperwork; it just sits down where it’s needed and decides to stay awhile.
