I came home from a work trip and my horse was gone.
Empty stall. Missing halter. Feed untouched.
“I sold him,” my husband said over breakfast. “He was old.”
Spirit wasn’t just a horse. I’d raised him since I was thirteen. He carried me through every hard season of my life.
And my husband sold him while I was out of town.
That night, I heard him outside on the phone, laughing.
“With the money I got for that nag, sweetheart, we’re set.”
Sweetheart.
The next morning, I found the paperwork in his locked drawer. I tracked Spirit from buyer to buyer until I found him at a rescue.
When I called his name, he walked straight to me.
I paid the fees and brought him home.
Then at Sunday dinner, I told his parents everything — the sale, the other woman, all of it.
“It’s just a horse,” he shrugged.
“It was hers,” his mother snapped.
The next day, I changed the locks.
Spirit is home now, safe in his stall.
Because you don’t sell someone’s heart and expect them to stay.
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