They spoke almost in whispers, as if they were justifying themselves. They said they didn’t want to worry me, that they knew how important my work was and how rarely I could get away.

My mother lowered her eyes and admitted that the money meant for food and medicine had been spent on the dog, because I myself had asked for special care, good food, and warmth.

My father simply nodded, as if it were the most natural decision in the world.

Those words made me feel sick. I sat down beside them and felt a weight rising inside me, one that couldn’t be argued with.

I told them that their health and their lives could not be bargaining chips, that no living being, no matter how beloved, was worth such a risk.

Yes, the dog is almost a member of the family to me, but they are my family in the truest sense.

They fell silent, and for the first time I understood how easy it is to confuse care with a mistake, and how costly that silence can be.