After work, I come home and prepare dinner for Isabella and myself. The echoes of my parents' voices — once so present, so anchoring — are now replaced with something unfamiliar but welcome: hope. Dinner is followed by hours of searching for Isabella's little sister. Orphan rescues, Adopt‑a‑Pet, Compassion, Facebook groups, the Humane Society of Tampa Bay, Hounds in Pounds, HALO — each click demanded a small act of faith, each search a quiet quest for the healing that might be possible.

My breath quickens when I see Little Debbie on Orphan Annie Rescue. She is the one — the right one. Her coloring reminds me so much of my mother, her beautiful curly brown hair. I remember the nights of touching my mother's hair and giving her a kiss before bedtime. The memory hits me so hard that I exclaim loudly enough to startle Isabella: We have found your little sister.

After months of combing through endless photos of abandoned, abused, and thrown‑away dogs… she is seen. I apply for adoption — hopefully for the last time. Moochi didn't work out; her personality was too skittish for me to even complete the second meet‑and‑greet. A five‑month‑old who stirred empathy, but not love.

So where am I now? Still in the process — the process of healing, the process of adoption, the process of grief, and the process of living.

In rescuing Griffin, I am becoming the woman my mother prayed for — the woman she always believed lived inside me..