I just got home after the longest 24 hours of my life. I was greeted by the overjoyed cat, who climbed me like a tree, rubbed my face with hers, purred madly and drooled happily down my neck. There is nothing like being greeted by a cat.

I put the cat down. I fed her, changed her water, and gave her a large handful of treats. I rinsed a mug in the sink. I pulled out soup, filled the mug, and put it in the microwave to heat.

I found peace in these mundane acts. My bones felt the reassuring tug of familiar routine. There was nothing better than coming home after a long ordeal to rest.

I took the hot soup from the microwave and brought it to our small shared table. Then I put the soup down, sat, and cried my eyes out.

Jack is gone. He most likely won’t be coming home again. After several days of evaluations, he will probably be placed. My days of heavy care are done.

I will no longer have to clean, change and bathe him. I won’t have to mop daily lakes. I won’t have to puree meals, do toilet runs, dress him in the morning and undress him at night. I won’t have to worry about leaving him alone.

But I won’t have Jack. I won’t have the chance to hug and kiss him many times a day. I won’t have his smiling face at my table. I won’t have his warmth beside me in bed.

I won’t have Jack. But I will have a life. I will have a chance to breathe, rest, and heal. I will have me time. I will have me.

I sip my soup, wondering how these two large realities can coexist in one small, broken heart.