As I eyed my French bulldog, Chambord, who lay placidly dozing in the passenger seat, my heart seized.
I can’t do this.
I can’t do this.I can do this.
I can do this.I have to do this.
I have to do this.I don’t want to do this.
I don’t want to do this.The swirling thoughts in my head didn’t provide me with any new insight.
Dr. Jezebel Milson’s words resonated through my head.
Liver transplant.
Liver transplantWhen I wasn’t obsessing about the doc’s horribly chosen name—and I’d thought my parents were mean—I was replaying our conversation over and over.
myChambord snuffled in her sleep.
My heart clenched.
She was my last connection to my parents.
Although not in a good way.
After announcing I was moving as far as I could get from New York, I’d scooped up the puppy and had walked
