My life turned upside down not on the day my husband and I adopted a dog from the shelter, nor when I finally saw two lines on the pregnancy test after years of treatment and tears. Everything shattered when my own mother—someone I’d always been close to—suddenly became an enemy. Not mine, no. My dog’s.
Baxter came into our lives eight years ago. A puppy with sorrowful eyes, a damaged past, but a heart bigger than the sky. Oliver and I loved him instantly—he became like a son to us, especially when our attempts to have a child ended in heartbreak. We cared for him, took him to the vet, worked with a trainer, and socialized him properly. He grew into the perfect family dog: gentle, calm, utterly devoted. Our little world was just the three of us—Oliver, me, and our Baxter.
When the pregnancy test finally came back positive after years of struggle, the world seemed brighter. We wept with joy. My mum and mother-in-law pretended to share our happiness, but their excitement quickly soured into demands and dramatic sighs.
“You have to get rid of that dog! Are you mad? The fur! The allergies! What if it bites?” Mum shrieked.
“Find someone to take it! This is a baby we’re talking about—surely it matters more than some mutt?” my mother-in-law chimed in, rolling her eyes.
Oliver and I tried to explain calmly: Baxter wasn’t a threat. The house was spotless, we had a robot vacuum, hygiene was impeccable. He was family. We weren’t “rehoming” him. But the older generation wouldn’t relent. Mum called ten times a day, sobbing down the phone about how I was ruining my unborn child. My mother-in-law badgered Oliver. The pressure mounted until, six months pregnant, I lay awake at night, my stomach twisted with dread.
“One more word,” Oliver told them, voice steady, “and you won’t see us again.”
They quieted—for a while.
When I brought our son home from the hospital, the first thing I did was kneel beside Baxter, who’d waited by the door, whining softly. I hugged him. Mum and my mother-in-law exchanged loaded glances. And when our baby developed a rash the next day, they exploded.
“It’s the fur! That dog is filthy—have you lost your mind?” Mum screeched.
“You let it near the baby’s crib? Your own grandmother would die of shame!” my mother-in-law added.
I stayed silent. But Oliver had had enough. He threw them both out.
Then came the threats. Blunt and cruel. First: “We’ll poison the thing, see if we don’t!” Then: “We’ll report you to social services!” Mum swore she’d file a complaint—claiming our child lived in squalor, that I was “unfit” for prioritising an animal over a baby.
Squalor? My home was cleaner than a private clinic. I mopped twice a day, monitored air quality, washed our son’s clothes separately. But none of it mattered to someone who’d already decided to hate.
I told my mother, cold and final: “Take one step toward social services, and you’ll never see your grandson again. Ever.”
Silence since. Sometimes it aches. She’s still my mum. But Baxter is family too. He was there when we couldn’t conceive. He kept us warm on the coldest nights. He isn’t a threat. He’s love.
I didn’t give him up. And if I had to choose between blackmail and the right to live peacefully with those I love—I chose the latter. I don’t regret it.
