After five years of marriage, my husband and I finally decided to take a short break. We planned a modest holiday in the Lake District—nothing extravagant, just a chance to unwind from the endless work shifts, mortgage payments, and daily grind. The only worry nagging at me was who would look after our beloved dog, Baxter. We’d adopted him two years ago from a shelter, and he’d become like a child to us—loyal, clever, and endlessly affectionate.
None of our friends could help, and my mother-in-law’s husband had severe allergies, so in the end, I hesitantly asked my mum. After some reluctance, she agreed. By then, she seemed to have accepted that we’d chosen a dog over children—she’d even brought him treats and played with him sometimes. I packed everything Baxter needed—his food, toys, bed, and bowls—and dropped him off at her place.
I left feeling at ease. But when we returned a week later, the first thing I noticed was the silence. Baxter wasn’t there. His bowls, toys, even his bed—all gone. Panicked, I called my mum. She didn’t answer at first, but when she finally did, her voice was calm, as if she’d just thrown out an old chair instead of a living creature:
“I took him back to the shelter. You should be having children, not fussing over a dog.”
My heart dropped. It felt like the ground had vanished beneath me. I couldn’t believe the woman who’d raised me would betray us—betray Baxter—without a word. She kept lecturing me about “distractions” and how my “maternal instincts” should be for a baby, not a pet, but I stopped listening. I hung up, and my husband and I rushed straight to the shelter.
The staff there were frosty. Mum had spun them a story about us expecting a baby and being unable to cope with a dog. It took pleading, photos, vet records, and endless explanations before they believed us. When Baxter was brought out, he was shaky and hesitant. It broke me when he finally curled into my lap—I sobbed like never before. The shelter asked for updates, and we agreed gladly.
I haven’t spoken to my mother since. How do you forgive someone who sees your family as an obstacle to grandchildren?
I’m only twenty-five. My husband and I love each other, work hard, and pay our bills. Life isn’t perfect, but we’re happy. Yes, we’re waiting to have children—because we want to be ready, emotionally and financially. We don’t want kids just to tick a box.
And Baxter? To some, he’s just a pet. To us, he’s family. If I’m not ready to be a mother yet, that doesn’t mean I lack love or responsibility. I pour it all into him. He’s taught me what it means to care for someone who depends on you completely.
Mum refused to see that. To her, life must follow her script: marry, then babies—no exceptions. Our stability, our respect for each other, means nothing.
She’s tried to reach out—messages, calls, even showing up unannounced. But I’m not ready. Betrayal isn’t a mistake—it’s a choice, cold and calculated. That’s what she did. The hurt’s still raw.
Now, Baxter dozes on my lap, his tail thumping gently in his sleep. He smiles again. So do I. We’re a family. And one day, when the time’s right, our child will grow up beside him. Because Baxter was our first—the one who taught us about loyalty, responsibility, and love without conditions. That’s a lesson no one can take away.
