"You let me doubt our children, Peter!" I snapped. "You sat at that table and pointed the finger at our own kids."
He flinched, and I watched the full weight of that land on him.
"I convinced myself I was fixing a small problem."
"I know," he admitted quietly. "That's the part I can't take back."
The shelter worker had gone very still near the gate, eyes on her clipboard, clearly wishing she were somewhere else entirely.
"I'll fix it," Peter said. "I swear I'll fix it."
I believed him. But believing someone and trusting them again are two very different things.
***
On the drive home, I thought about a dog bite from when I was eight.
A neighbor's dog had a new litter, and I reached too fast for one of the puppies. The mother nipped my hand… quick and protective, but barely breaking the skin.
Believing someone and trusting them again are two very different things.
