“Nineteen years ago, I was drinking lemonade on my front porch with your mother…with Caroline,” she says, stroking my face as I go still. “She’d caught you feeding the neighbor dog pieces of your pancake through the fence in your backyard that morning, petting its nose and giggling. She’d scolded you, of course—told you it wasn’t safe and that the dog could bite your hand.” Nostalgia laces her words. “But you didn’t care. You said the dog wanted love…and if you got bit, that was okay. At least you gave it love.”
