**Personal Diary Entry**
He’s the only one who understands me.
“What’s for lunch?” Edward asked, sniffing the air. “Are you cooking something?”
“I am. Biscuits for Lord. With turkey and oats,” Emily replied proudly, pulling out the baking tray. “He’s going through a rough patch right now. Shedding season, grooming, his mood swings. Thought I’d spoil him a bit.”
She flitted around the table in a short ivory dressing gown. Lord, a fluffy little Pomeranian with the eyes of a devoted disciple, yapped excitedly at her feet.
Edward didn’t share their enthusiasm. He’d rushed home from work for lunch, only to realise lunch was for Lord alone.
“Brilliant,” he muttered. “And what about *our* lunch?”
“Dunno. You could make scrambled eggs. Or we could order in. You always say you don’t care what you eat.”
He didn’t argue. Because he *had* said that. Because fighting over food seemed petty.
Emily had Lord long before she met Edward. She was nineteen when her mum died. Her dad, not knowing how else to comfort her, brought home a puppy.
Since then, Lord became the centre of her world. When she moved in with Edward—or rather, insisted he let her into his two-bed flat in London—Lord came first. *Literally*. In a massive carrier on the taxi’s front seat, near the heater so he wouldn’t get cold.
Edward didn’t mind then. It seemed endearing, the way she talked to the dog, fussed over him. Three years later, that sweet devotion started to feel like an obsession. And it didn’t extend to anyone else.
Edward ate instant noodles in silence by the sink. Margaret arrived almost on cue. As if she *knew* when her son’s home life was unravelling. She marched in with a bag containing a tub of soup, a packet of cottage cheese, and foil-wrapped chicken breast.
“So, how’s married life treating you?” she chirped from the doorway.
“Fine, Mum. Emily’s baking treats for Lord.”
“Ah, Lord again. Well, at least it’s not for guests. Last time I accidentally tried one of his *delicacies*,” she joked, lacing the words with poison.
Emily either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it. She stepped aside, beaming.
“We’ve got turkey biscuits today! Want one? No liver in these, it’s a new recipe.”
“No, thanks. I roasted chicken this morning. For *humans*,” Margaret replied, heading straight for the fridge.
Her sharp eyes scanned the shelves. Yoghurt, milk, a jar of jam—the same one she’d given them six months ago.
Meanwhile, a separate shelf held neatly labelled containers for Lord. Heart-shaped sticky notes and all.
“Right. Lord comes first,” Margaret muttered, shutting the door.
Edward sighed and left early. Still hungry, heart heavy. He told himself it was just a rough patch, that things would settle. But they never did.
A year passed. A lot changed—at least, there was a new addition. Emily had a boy, Oliver. At first, Grandma hoped this would straighten out her priorities.
Reality quickly set in.
Margaret heard the screams from the hallway. Choked, desperate, *childish*.
“What on earth is going on?!” she demanded, pushing past Emily.
Her heart dropped when she saw Oliver—face blotchy from crying, nappy soaked. Worst of all, Lord was licking his face.
“Have you lost your mind?!” Margaret snapped, grabbing the dog by the scruff.
Lord snarled and twisted free. Emily rushed in, lips pursed, offended. She snatched Lord back, cradling him.
“Why are you shouting? He was just trying to help! Poor thing had his jabs today—you scared him!”
“*He’s* the victim?! And what’s Oliver doing, singing opera?”
Emily rolled her eyes and half-heartedly picked up her son. She inspected him with weary indifference before turning away.
“I’ll warm his bottle.”
Margaret checked the nappy. Soaked. An empty bottle lay on the floor—maybe a spare. Tooth marks dotted the teat. Oliver didn’t even have teeth yet…
It had to be Lord. Unless Emily chewed it herself. At this point, nothing would surprise her.
She took Oliver to the kitchen, where Emily lazily stirred formula. The baby whimpered, but Emily didn’t turn around.
“Why isn’t he breastfed?” Margaret asked coldly.
“You want me on some draconian diet? No cheese, no citrus—no thanks. I’ve got self-respect.”
“And none for *him*?”
Emily slowly turned. Pupils narrowed, fists clenched. Lord nuzzled her leg, but it didn’t calm her.
“Listen. You waltz in here with your lectures. Want to dictate my life next?”
“I came because my grandson’s screaming his lungs out while you cook *for your dog*! Are you even a mother?”
Emily slammed the bottle into the sink. Lord yelped and hid under the table.
“Who the hell are you to judge?! This is *my* home, *my* child, *my* Lord!”
“Lord’s all you care about! You’re *sick*—a dog matters more than your baby!”
“At least he doesn’t scream nonstop,” Emily spat, storming off.
The front door opened. Edward walked in, took one look at his mother holding Oliver, his wife’s twisted expression, and knew—he’d walked into a warzone.
“What’s happened?”
“Ask your wife,” Margaret hissed, voice trembling. “Oliver’s soaked, starving, and that dog’s licking his face after licking God knows what. Meanwhile, she’s cooking *for the dog*. She’s *deranged*.”
“Mum, she’s just… tired. You know how it is. No sleep, the baby—postnatal depression.”
“This isn’t depression,” Margaret cut in. “It’s neglect. It won’t end well, son.”
They managed to feed Oliver. Emily sat alone in the bedroom, rocking Lord like a baby. It wasn’t cute anymore.
Six months later, Edward worked late—sometimes for overtime, sometimes to avoid home. A thick silence had settled. No more fights. Emily didn’t even yell now; she just *looked through* him, as if he were a flatmate.
That day was no different. Lord crunched on premium kibble. Edward ate a banana on the go. Emily was well-rested—Oliver had barely cried overnight, earning a half-hearted “finally.” Edward left early, leaving her with the baby and dog.
Usually, he watched Oliver while she walked Lord. Today, she hadn’t. Within half an hour, Lord whined at the door. Time to go.
Oliver was asleep in his playpen. Emily threw on a jacket, hood up, and left. No point carrying him—he’d wake and start crying. The longer he slept, the better.
The weather was overcast but mild. Lord sniffed the grass while Emily scrolled her phone. A post caught her eye: a happy family photo captioned, *Loyalty and care matter most*. She tapped *like*.
Her loyalty had four legs and a leather collar.
Meanwhile, Oliver woke. The playpen was wedged under the table—space was tight. He grabbed the tablecloth, yanking it. A large mug (a Mother’s Day gift) slid off. It didn’t break, but the tea inside was still hot.
Emily heard his screams from the doorstep. She unlocked the door, froze.
Red blotches streaked his arm. Tea stains darkened the white pillow. The mug lay nearby.
“Christ,” she breathed, grabbing him.
He sobbed uncontrollably. She shut the kitchen door first—*keep Lord out*—then lifted Oliver.
Five minutes later, Edward returned for a forgotten USB. The screams pulled him inside. Emily fumbled for nappy rash cream.
His face darkened.
“What *happened*?”
“I—I was gone fifteen minutes! With Lord! He was asleep!”
Her voice shook—not with guilt, but *caught-ness*.
“You left him alone *for the dog*? Are you insane?!”
“Stop shouting! It’s just a burn!”
“*Just a burn*?! Listen to yourself!” He stepped back, not to scare Oliver further. “You spend *my* money on Lord’s gourmet food, kiss his arse, but *abandon* your son?!”
“You don’t *get it*!” she shrieked. “I’m exhausted! You’re never here! Lord’s the only one who *understands* me!”
A beat of silence. Yes, Edward worked a lot. But his salary gave her a life she’d once only dreamed of. *That* was why she’d chosen him.
He studied her—no pity, no excuses left. This wasn’t a phase. *This* was Emily.
“Then stay with him,” he said quietly. “Leave *us* alone.”
She handed Oliver over, calledShe walked out without a glance back, Lord tucked under her arm, as Oliver’s cries faded into the quiet embrace of his father’s arms.
