I turned the photograph over once again.
There was no doubt.
The few words written on the back were in Marlène’s handwriting.
“He always comes back here. Don’t let Diane find out.”
My legs suddenly felt weak.
The dog began scratching at the door of the abandoned house.
I immediately dialed the police.
When the officers arrived, they opened the door.
There was almost nothing inside.
An old table.
Some blankets.
Dog bowls.
And on one wall, several photographs of Ethan.
In some of them, he was playing with the same dog.
I no longer understood anything.
Then one of the officers found a medical file in a drawer.
Ethan’s name was on it.
But that document had never been among the papers Marlène gave me after his death.
I called my sister.
— Diane? What’s going on?
— I’m at the house.
Silence.
— Which house?
— The one where you were hiding Ethan’s belongings.
She hung up.
The police immediately went to find her.
A few hours later, Marlène finally began to talk.
The dog’s name was Bailey.
He had once belonged to a man named Samuel, who worked as a volunteer at the facility where Ethan was receiving treatment.
Ethan adored Bailey.
During the final months of his life, Samuel regularly brought the dog to visit him.
But Marlène had discovered something else.
The hospital had made a serious mistake in Ethan’s treatment.
An incorrect dosage had caused his condition to deteriorate dramatically.
Samuel had seen the documents.
So had Marlène.
— Why didn’t you tell me anything? I asked.
She was crying.
— You were devastated. The hospital offered a settlement. They convinced me that knowing the truth wouldn’t bring Ethan back to you.
— So you decided for me?
She lowered her head.
Marlène had agreed to keep certain documents while the matter was being quietly investigated.
Samuel, however, refused to remain silent.
Not long afterward, he went to live with a sick relative, temporarily leaving Bailey with someone from the neighborhood.
The dog escaped.
And he returned to the only place where he knew he could find Ethan.
His grave.
Samuel had kept the little truck along with other mementos Ethan had entrusted to him.
Bailey found it in the house and brought it to me.
The investigation was reopened.
It ultimately confirmed medical negligence that had been concealed in the initial reports.
It did not bring my son back.
And discovering the truth did not make my grief any easier.
For a long time, I was unable to forgive Marlène.
She had believed she was protecting me.
But above all, she had deprived me of the right to know what had happened during my own child’s final days.
Bailey, meanwhile, came to live with me.
On the first Sunday after I adopted him, we went back to the cemetery together.
He walked straight to Ethan’s grave.
But this time, he did not lie down in front of the headstone.
He stood there motionless for a few seconds.
Then he came back to me.
That was when I understood something.
For a whole year, I had thought this dog simply refused to leave my son.
Perhaps he had only been waiting for someone to finally discover what Ethan had left behind.
I placed the little red truck beside the yellow daisies.
— You can come home now, Bailey.
He gently wagged his tail.
And for the first time, we left the grave together.
