Pistachio

How do you know when it’s time to let go?

- Jennifer Gentlesk

I SAT ON THE PORCH WITH MY COFFEE. I’d snuck outside, inching the sliding glass door open so as not to wake anyone. My husband, Anthony; daughters, Grace, 13, and Genevieve, 11; and son, Joseph, 6, were still asleep in the cabin we’d rented in the mountains near Asheville, North Carolina. The day before, we had driven 10 hours to get here, with Luna, our 75-pound Lab bulldog mix, sitting on my lap, and Joseph telling endless knock-knock jokes.

Today was my fortieth birthday. And I needed to be alone.

Three years earlier, my mom had died right before my birthday, after an eight-month battle with malignant melanoma. I missed her with an ache that went through my bones, through every part of me. I didn’t want to celebrate. Was this going to be how I felt on every birthday?

A banging on the sliding door startled me. Joseph was awake. I went inside. The girls were up as well. “Happy birthday, Mom!” they said, slurping their chocolate vacation cereal.

On our way to Cedar Creek Stables to go horseback riding, we saw signs for a lost dog. “That’s so sad!” the kids said. “What if Luna got lost?”

Anthony dropped off the girls and me and went to explore the nearby town of Lake Lure with Joseph. Several hours later, Anthony met us at the stables. He had a strange look on his face. “We got you a birthday present,” he said. “It’s in the car.”

“Where’s Joseph?”

“He’s in the car, with the present.

” We walked around the corner to where the car was parked. I saw Joseph’s beaming face first. I peered in the window. There was a medium-size brown dog sitting beside him. When the dog saw me, it wiggled excitedly.

“Can we keep him, Mom? Please, can we?” Joseph asked. The dog began to lick his face.