Boundaries

2

I was raised in a Christian home. My parents are Christian. Their parents were Christian. And one day, my kids will be Christian.

Kids.

The thought made me pause as I walked into the confession booth, greeting Father O’Leary before taking a seat.

We’re Catholic, and it’s a family norm to confess our sins every Saturday morning. At first, it felt strange—spilling your deepest regrets to another person—but I won’t deny that it’s cathartic. Like a boulder lifted off my chest.

Not today, though.

This morning, as I walked out of the chapel, my chest still felt heavy.

Cancer.

The dog admitted yesterday had been diagnosed with cancer. Not a cold. Not a fractured bone. Cancer.

Only one in ten cases survives.

I’d spent all night thinking about her, even forgetting about sweet little Nelly back at the shelter. I didn’t even have work today, but my feet carried me there anyway.

“Matthew, what are you doing here?” Mr. Chen’s voice startled me as I walked through the door.

“Is she okay?” I asked, ignoring his question.

“She’s stable for now. I put her on treatment, but we need to talk to her owners about chemo,” he said, his tone serious. “Honestly, I wish they’d brought her in earlier.”

I approached her table, gently rubbing behind her ears. She looked better—barely—but her eyes still carried that distant, glazed-over look.

“She’s a fighter,” I murmured.

Mr. Chen gave me a small smile before clearing his throat. “Since you’re here, I’m glad. Could you run to the supply store for me? We’re running low on a few things.”

“Sure.”