After five years of marriage, my husband and I finally decided to take a break—just a short holiday in the Lake District, nothing extravagant, just a chance to breathe away from the grind of shifts, the mortgage, and the endless routine. The only thing weighing on me before leaving was who’d look after our beloved dog, 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 friends couldn’t help, my mother-in-law’s husband had severe allergies, and in the end, I hesitantly asked my mum. She agreed, though not straight away. At the time, it seemed she’d made peace with us having a dog—she even brought him treats sometimes, played with him. I packed everything he’d need—food, toys, his bed, bowls—and dropped him off with her.
I left with peace of mind. But when we returned a week later, the first thing I noticed was the silence. Alfie wasn’t there. No bowls, no toys, no bed. Panicked, I called my mother. She didn’t pick up at first, but when she finally answered, her voice was eerily calm, as if she’d tossed out an old coat, not a living creature:
*”I took him back to the shelter. You should be having children, not fussing over a dog.”*
My heart dropped. The floor might as well have vanished beneath me. I couldn’t believe the woman who’d raised me could betray us like this—betray Alfie—without a word, without warning.
She kept talking, saying we’d been *”distracted”*, that *”motherly instincts”* should go to a child, not a dog, but I’d stopped listening. I hung up, and my husband and I raced to the shelter.
They were cold at first. Turned out my mother had spun them a lie—that we were expecting and couldn’t handle Alfie anymore. We begged, explained, showed photos, vet records, everything. Finally, they believed us. Alfie came home. Shaken, confused—he hesitated before finally pressing against me, and I sobbed like never before. The shelter asked for our number, just to check on him now and then.
I haven’t spoken to my mother since. How do you forgive someone who sees your family as nothing but an *”obstacle”* to grandchildren?
I’m only twenty-five. My husband and I love each other, work hard, pay our mortgage. Our life isn’t perfect, but we’re happy. Yes, we’re not rushing into parenthood—because we want to be ready. Emotionally, financially, in every way. We’re not saying no to children, but we won’t have them just to tick a box, just to *”keep Mum happy.”*
As for Alfie—maybe to some he’s just a pet. But to us, he’s family. And if I’m not ready to be a mother yet, that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of love and responsibility. I give it all to Alfie. He’s taught us—shown us what it means to care for someone who depends on you completely.
But my mother refused to see that. To her, life must follow her script: marry, then babies—no excuses. The fact we’re building our own life, respectfully, without chaos, doesn’t count.
She’s tried to reach out—messages, calls, even turning up unannounced. But I won’t answer. Not yet. Betrayal isn’t a mistake. It’s a choice. A cold, calculated one. And that’s what she did. The wound’s still raw.
Right now, Alfie’s curled on my lap, asleep. His tail’s started wagging again. So have I. We’re a family again. And someday, when the time’s right, our child will grow up beside him. Because Alfie’s our first son—the dog who taught us loyalty, responsibility, and love without conditions.
