She thought that might have been joy, or something like it. Something that feels sad as much as it feels like love. When Isabel was twenty-two, the year after her mother’s passing, she got a dog, Haasje. Little hare. The animal wasn’t very clever—chased everything into the water, even the things that meant danger. She made Isabel laugh when so few other things ever did. Haasje died, too, barely a few years old. Too young for a dog.
