My husband Kyle started laying out poison traps for the raccoons tearing through our backyard. I begged him to find a humane way, but he scoffed. One moonlit night, I heard rustling and followed the sound, heart pounding. What I found near the overturned trash left me frozen—my breath caught in my throat. A piece of our shattered life was hidden in those trembling creatures.
It had started days earlier, when Kyle hurled a rock at a pregnant raccoon. “They’re vermin, Josie,” he barked, eyes cold. I stood there, shaking, still stunned that after fifteen years, his rage could still gut me. When I suggested safer fencing or sealed bins, he mocked me—said pain was the only thing pests understood. That’s when I realized his cruelty wasn’t just aimed at animals.