After five years of marriage, my wife and I finally decided to take a breather and go on a short holiday to the Lake District—nothing fancy, just a change of scenery to escape the grind of work, the mortgage, and daily life. The only thing nagging at me before we left was who’d look after our beloved spaniel, Alfie. We’d adopted him from a shelter two years ago, and he’d become like a child to us—loyal, clever, and endlessly affectionate.
Our mates couldn’t help, my mother-in-law’s husband had terrible allergies, so in the end, I asked my mum. She hesitated but agreed. At the time, it seemed she’d finally accepted we had a dog—she even brought him treats and played with him sometimes. I packed everything Alfie needed—food, toys, his bed, bowls—and dropped him off at hers.
I left with peace of mind. But when I got back a week later, the first thing I noticed was the silence. Alfie wasn’t there. No bowls, no toys, no bed. I rang Mum in a panic. She finally answered after ages and said, calm as anything, like she was talking about an old coat rather than a living thing:
“I took him back to the shelter. You should be having kids, not fussing over a dog.”
My heart dropped. I felt like the floor had vanished beneath me. I couldn’t believe the woman who’d raised me would betray us—betray Alfie—without even a word.
She kept droning on about how we’d have “no distractions” now, how my “maternal instincts” should be for a baby, not a dog, but I’d stopped listening. I hung up, and my wife and I drove straight to the shelter.
They were frosty at first. Turned out Mum had spun them a tale that we were expecting a baby and couldn’t handle Alfie. We pleaded, showed photos, vet records, anything to prove he was ours. Eventually, they believed us.
Alfie came home. Terrified, confused, he hesitated before finally pressing against me—and I sobbed like I never had before. The shelter asked for our number to check on him.
I haven’t spoken to my mum since. How do you forgive someone who sees your family as just an “obstacle” to grandchildren?
I’m only twenty-five. My wife and I love each other, work hard, pay our mortgage. Life isn’t perfect, but we’re happy. Yes, we’re not rushing into kids—we want to be ready, emotionally and financially. We’re not saying no, but we won’t have them just to tick a box for Mum.
And Alfie? To some, he’s just a pet. But to us, he’s family. If I’m not ready to be a mum yet, that doesn’t mean I lack love or responsibility. Alfie teaches me what it means to care for someone who depends on you completely.
Mum refused to see that. To her, life’s a checklist: marry, have kids—or you’ve failed. That we’re building our own life, without drama, with respect, doesn’t count.
She’s tried to reach out—messages, calls, even turning up unannounced. But I’m not ready. Maybe one day I’ll forgive, but not now. Betrayal isn’t just a mistake—it’s a cold, knowing act that hurts you. That’s what she chose.
Right now, Alfie’s curled up on my lap, grinning again. So am I. We’re still a family. And someday, when the time’s right, our child will grow up with him. Because Alfie’s our first son—the dog who taught us loyalty, love, and what it means to be there for each other.
