AM I WRONG FOR CHOOSING A DOG OVER MY OWN SISTER?

I brought Maple home without thinking. She curled up on my rug like she finally felt safe. She doesn’t bark. She just is, and for the first time in ages, so was I.

Then my sister Callen called. Her plans fell through, and she needed a place to stay—but she’s severely allergic to dogs. “Just keep the dog in the bedroom,” she said, like it was no big deal.

But Maple never goes in the bedroom. That rug is her space, her safety. I told Callen I’d think about it.

“She’s just a dog,” she said.

But she isn’t. Not to me.

When I called Callen back, I told her no. She was stunned, angry. Said I was choosing a dog over my own sister.

“It’s not about choosing,” I told her. “It’s about what feels right.”

That night, Maple laid across my legs, and for the first time in a long time, I felt at home.

Then there was a knock. Callen stood there, suitcase in hand, with a guy named Ben who’d driven her over. She didn’t speak as she walked in.

Later, she quietly asked for water. Then, more quietly still, she said, “I’m sorry I blew up earlier.”

We talked. About expectations. About bending ourselves for others. About boundaries.

Finally, Callen looked at Maple and whispered, “Can I pet her? Just once?”