I nodded. She stepped aside and invited me in. Woman: “My husband passed away last year. Max was his dog. After he died, I became too ill to care for him, so my son took him to a shelter.” I sat down, feeling terrible. Me: “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” She smiled sadly. Woman: “You don’t need to apologize. My husband would be happy knowing Max has a good home.” She showed me photographs of Max as a puppy, sleeping beside her husband and following him around the garden. Then she opened a drawer and took out a small notebook. Woman: “My husband used to write down everything about Max. His favorite food, his habits, even the things that frightened him.” I laughed when I saw one entry: “Max is afraid of the vacuum cleaner. He will pretend to be brave, but he is a terrible actor.” I took a picture of the page. Before I left, the woman asked if she could see Max sometime. I promised to bring him over. The following Saturday, I returned with Max. The moment he saw the woman, he ran toward her and placed his head on her lap. She began crying and rubbed his ears. Woman: “Hello, my little boy. You look after your new mother, okay?” I sat beside her, trying not to cry myself. Then Max suddenly jumped off her lap, ran to the front door, and started barking. The woman smiled. Woman: “He always did that when my husband came home.” For a moment, we both looked toward the door. Nobody was there. Then she laughed softly and wiped her eyes. Woman: “Old habits take a long time to disappear.” I still take Max to visit her every Saturday. And every time we arrive, she has two things waiting for him: his favorite biscuits and a photograph of the man who loved him first. I adopted a dog that day. But somehow, I also inherited a grandmother.