Long ago, after five years of marriage, my husband and I finally took a small holiday to the Lake District—not some grand affair abroad or a luxury hotel, but simply a chance to escape the grind of shifts, the mortgage, and the endless daily bustle. It was meant to be a breath of fresh air. Yet, one worry gnawed at me before we left: who would care for our beloved terrier, Alfie? We’d adopted him two years prior from a shelter, and he’d become like a child to us—loyal, clever, and endlessly affectionate.
None of our friends could take him, and my mother-in-law’s husband suffered terribly from allergies. In the end, I turned to my own mother. Reluctantly, she agreed. At the time, it seemed she’d made peace with us having a dog—even brought him treats now and then, played with him. I packed everything he’d need—food, toys, his bed, bowls—and left him in her care.
I set off with a light heart. But returning home a week later, the first thing I noticed was the silence. No Alfie, no bowls, no toys or blanket. My stomach dropped. I called my mother in a panic. When she finally answered, her voice was calm, as if discussing an old pair of shoes rather than a living creature:
“I took him back to the shelter. It’s time you had a child, not a dog to fuss over.”
The world seemed to tilt. How could she—my own mother—do this behind my back? No warning, no discussion. Just cold betrayal. She prattled on about “no more distractions,” how motherhood was better suited to babies than pets, but her words blurred. I hung up, and my husband and I rushed to the shelter.
There, we were met with suspicion. Mum had spun them a tale—claimed we were expecting and couldn’t manage Alfie. It took hours of pleading, photos, vet records, before they believed us. When Alfie was brought out, he was trembling, unsure. It broke me. He hesitated before finally pressing against my legs—I sobbed like never before. The shelter made us promise to keep in touch, to let them know he was safe.
I haven’t spoken to my mother since. How do you forgive someone who treats family like an obstacle?
I’m only twenty-five. My husband and I love each other, work hard, pay our bills. Our life isn’t perfect, but it’s ours. No, we’re not ready for children yet—not until we’re certain, in every way. That doesn’t mean we lack love or responsibility. Alfie gets all of it. He’s taught us more about devotion than I ever knew possible.
Mum couldn’t see that. To her, life must follow her script: marry, breed, check the boxes. That we’ve built something steady, without drama, with respect—none of it counts.
She’s tried to reach out since—messages, calls, even turning up unannounced. But I won’t answer. Not yet. Betrayal isn’t a mistake. It’s a choice, deliberate and cold. That’s what she did. The wound’s still raw.
Alfie dozes in my lap now, his tail twitching in sleep. He smiles again. So do I. We’re a family—just as we were meant to be. And someday, when the time’s right, our child will grow up beside him. Because Alfie was our first son. The one who taught us what love truly means.
