Better Than Family

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 11 minViews 3

Oh, Julia, if youve got money with nowhere to put it, youd better help your brother. Its madness! Twelve thousand pounds for his rent! snapped Margaret, her voice a razor.

Julia set her glass down on the kitchen table, her lips pressed tight. The relatives were pressing on her so hard that she could feel nothing left to enjoyno birthday celebration, no conversation.

Margaret, stop squeezing the girl dry, Victor tried to intervene. Are we celebrating anything today?

Oh, were celebrating, the mother sneered. And then my grandchildren will be shoved back into that filthy council flat with the drunken neighbours, while I keep praying nothing terrible happens to them. If you, Julia, gave that twelvethousand pounds to Ian, he could afford a proper flat, not a cramped room! Your cats could survive on simple food and a cup of tea.

Mum, Julia protested, her voice tight, I took those cats in because I wanted to. Im responsible for them. And Ian is a grown man, thirtyfive now. He should be responsible for himself and any family he deliberately starts.

Ian, the grown man, twisted his mouth in displeasure, slumped back on the sofa and turned his back with a theatrical flourish.

And your family too! Margaret shouted, her tone rising. Your brother, your nephews! As for cats on the street, take any you like. We fed ours porridge and tinned fish all our lives and they turned out fine. You treat yours like children! Fine, you dont want to have kids of your own. Want to waste away alone in old age? Be my guest. But you cant keep pampering your pets when your real nephews only get sweets on special occasions!

Julias patience snapped. Years of neglect, belittlement, the constant devaluation of her feelings exploded, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Cats are better than family, she blurted. They love me for no reason, ask for nothing. And theyll never blame me for wanting my own life.

She could take no more. Turning on her heel, Julia fled to the bedroom and slammed the door with a force that rattled the frames.

Well see how they love you when you stop buying them all those trinkets! Margaret shouted after her. The worlds turned upside down. Some cats are dearer than parents now

Margarets wails continued, but Julia tried to block them out. She collapsed onto the bed, burying her head under the pillow, drowning out the accusations. Her brother simply brushed her aside like a piece of artillery, slipping behind her skirt as he always had.

Julias childhood memories were hazy, as if someone had smeared the painful edges. She did remember her fifth birthday, when Margaret baked a raspberry cake because Ian had demanded it, even though Julia had begged for chocolate with candles.

To my dearest man, the biggest slice! Margaret beamed, then looked at Julia with a wan smile. Youll have a smaller piece. Girls need to watch their figures from an early age.

It seemed innocent, but Ian always got the best toys, trips, presents, and most of all, attention. Margaret gazed at him with admiration, hope, a soft awe. Julia felt like an afterthought, a footnote attached to her brother.

Victor, a traditionalist, would sigh at such moments, rarely interjecting. He believed a womans place was with the children and a mans with work.

As Julia grew older she spent most summers at the cottage with Margaret. Ian, meanwhile, roamed the town with his mates, claiming a headache whenever Margaret asked for helpa request that was rare indeed. Julias excuse of the girl must help around the house while Ian does mens business never passed.

Sometimes Victor tried, too late, to meddle in the upbringing, but the moment had already slipped away.

Julia, are you trying to raise a domestic cripple? he whispered to his wife once, alone. Stop coddling him! A proper man should be able to wash his own socks, make his bed, and cook at least for himself.

And what? I dont see you doing any of that, Margaret retorted. Let the lad live peacefully while hes with us. Hell have time to get a proper job later.

And then? He wont learn a thing by a snap of the fingers!

Then his wife will have to teach him.

If she refuses to treat a grown man like a child, what then?

Then we dont need her. Well find a normal one.

The normal one appeared far too quickly. Julia wasnt even sixteen when Ian brought home a girl with wide, naïve eyes. At first she stayed for evenings, then nights, and finally moved in for good.

Julia learned of the permanent arrangement only when Margaret sat her down.

Darling, dont take offense, Margaret began without preamble, but young people need space. Youll move into Ians room, and hell move in with Amelia.

The proposal shattered Julia. Her room, her sanctuary, her books and postersall were to be taken away. Ians room was spacious but shared, leaving no room for privacy.

Mum, thats my room. Im used to it

Technically it isnt yours; its ours, yours and dads, in the flat we share with Ian. Youre just borrowing it temporarily. And stop making a drama of it. Theres a bed, a deskwhat more do you want?

Julia was speechless for a few seconds. From the outside it might have seemed reasonable, but the words told her she owned nothing there. Her chance for solitude was slipping away too.

Julia, dont touch the child, Victor intervened. Let the young ones live how they will, or leave if theyre unhappy. Theyll save up for a flat faster.

You want our son out of the house to sleep on the streets?! Margaret exploded. And what if something happens to him? I wont forgive you!

Margaret painted the bleakest scenarios, and Victor soon yielded to her pressure. That day Julia finally shifted her belongings to another room.

Just as she feared, her personal life vanished. Ian mocked her posters, Margaret tried to peek at her online chats, and Amelia, the new sisterinlaw, pilfered her cosmetics without asking. Conflict was constant, and Julia always bore the blame. She felt like an extra piece of furniture in a home that never had a place for her.

Soon Julia fled to her grandmothers house. The old woman was blind in one eye and shuffled slowly, but caring for her felt better than being a voiceless ornament in a house that never welcomed her.

Grandma had been a veterinarian until retirement, loved animals, and always carried a bit of feed on her walks, never letting anyone inside her home.

I dont want them to grow attached to me, she would say. And I dont want to get attached. I cant even afford my own meds, let alone care for animals. If you take one in, you must feed, treat, and love it, or dont take it at all.

They lived together for almost ten years, side by side. While looking after Grandma, Julia studied and worked, discovering she too wanted to be a vet.

When Grandma passed, her flat went to Julia. It should have been a fresh start, but loneliness gnawed at her. Friends were busy with their own families. She craved someone to hold, someone to share a life with. The word family now meant trouble and disappointment. Animals were a different story. She had two cats: Milo, who had been rescued after a failed euthanasia because he couldnt stand on his hind legs as a kitten, and Ginger, who joined a year later when Milo grew bored alone.

Their health was fragile. Milos kidneys failed; Gingers stomach was weak. Vet food was pricey, but Julia shouldered the cost. Their affection made the expense feel trivial.

Ian, however, saw things differently.

One day he lugged a rat over to her flat. The kids wanted a pet; a hamster was too pricey, a rat seemed cheap. No one thought about proper care, and the animal fell ill. While Julia was trying to explain that a cage should be three times the size of the rat, a delivery man arrived with cat food.

Thatll be twelvehundred and sixtyseven pounds, he said, unloading the bags.

Ian raised an eyebrow. As soon as the courier left, he muttered,

Twelve hundred? Thats a third of my salary. Did they stuff gold in those bags?

Ian never saved enough for a flat. After his first child was born, he moved with his family into a cramped council room, where a second son soon followed.

Its veterinary food, Julia replied calmly. And its on discount.

Ian shook his head but didnt press the issue further. The next tragedy hit on Julias birthday.

She lay alone in the quiet, the relatives gone, and, truth be told, she felt a small relief. Shed never wanted to spend the day with them, but defying tradition was never easy.

Milo sensed her mood, nudged his wet nose against her cheek, and began to purr. Ginger trotted over, licking the clenched fists shed made into fists. Their soft vibrations eased the tension, a wordless support Julia never found in her family.

The phone rang. Victors voice came, weary.

Julia, Im sorry its come to this he said. I dont get the whole cat thing, but I wont reach into your purse. Theyre not right.

His words were a thin bandage over a bruised wound. He didnt condemn her, nor did he side with Margaret. Perhaps, if hed been a bit more present, none of this would have happened. Still, Julia was grateful for his effort.

Later, another call. Katie, her best friend, burst through the silence.

Happy birthday, love! How are you? Howd you celebrate?

Julia managed a weak, Thanks, its fine. Katie knew her well enough to read between the lines.

Dont stay a wreck. Ill be there in an hour, she promised, and hung up before any protest could surface.

An hour later the flat erupted. Milo and Ginger bolted under the bed in terror as Katie, her husband Andrew, and two other friends stormed in, shouting Happy Birthday! carrying pizza boxes, wine bottles, and, the pièce de résistance, a massive multilevel cat tree.

For your furry lads, so they dont get bored, Katie declared.

The evening turned into a chaotic, joyous blur. Laughter, embraces, ridiculous toaststhis felt more real than any family gathering. The guests accepted Julia as she was, unlike her blood relatives. They stayed past midnight, and Katie lingered to help clean up.

How do you feel? Released? she asked quietly.

Julia smiled despite herself.

Yes. Thank you. Youre the best.

Milo curled up on a cushion beneath the table, Ginger claimed a chair. The new cat tree towered in the living room. Katie, who had to work the next day, washed dishes beside her.

In that moment Julia realised family could be important, but only if you were lucky enough to have a good one. She hadnt been. And that was fine. Because if the family youre born into fails you, you can always build one yourselffrom the creatures that purr at your ear when you cry, from the friends who burst into your home at midnight knowing youre hurting. A family forged in love, not duty or guilt, will be stronger than any blood tie.

Staying Connected Every morning, Mrs. Hope Parker’s day began the same way: the whistling kettle, two spoons of loose leaf tea in her old, beloved teapot that had survived since the kids were little and everything seemed possible. While the water warmed, she would tune the kitchen radio to the news—half-listening to the anchors whose familiar voices felt like old friends, more familiar than many faces these days. On the wall, the yellow-handed clock faithfully ticked on, but the landline’s ring beneath it grew rare. It used to buzz every evening when old friends called to discuss soaps or their blood pressure. Now, those friends fell sick, moved to family in other cities, or faded away altogether. The phone stood in the corner, heavy, the receiver fitting comfortably in her palm. Sometimes Mrs. Parker would stroke it in passing, checking if this lifeline still breathed. Her children preferred mobile phones. Really, she knew they called each other more than her—when they visited, their mobiles rarely left their grasp. Her son would fall silent mid-conversation, eyes locked to his screen, mutter “one sec,” and begin tapping. Her granddaughter—a reed-thin girl with a wild ponytail—almost never took her hands off her phone. Friends, games, music, lessons. Everything for them was in that little device now. She herself still had an old button mobile, bought for her after her first trip to hospital with high blood pressure. “So we’re always reachable,” her son had insisted. It lay in a grey sleeve on the hallway shelf, sometimes forgotten, buried under scarves and shopping receipts. It seldom rang, and when it did, Mrs. Parker often failed to press the right button in time, berating herself afterwards. That day she turned seventy-five. The number felt foreign—inside, she was sure she was at least ten years younger, maybe even fifteen. But the passport didn’t lie. Morning went its familiar course: tea, radio, a quick joint exercise routine as the clinic doctor had advised. She pulled yesterday’s salad from the fridge, set a pie out on the table: the family was due at two. She couldn’t get over how birthdays were now planned not by phone but in some “chat.” One day, her son said, “We sort everything with Tanya in the family chat. I’ll show you someday.” He never did. For her, “chat” sounded like something otherworldly, where people lived in tiny windows and spoke in letters. At two they arrived. First crashed in grandson Tom with headphones and a backpack; then granddaughter Daisy—quiet, gliding through the hallway; later, her son and daughter-in-law, laden with bags. The flat buzzed with tight, noisy warmth. Pastry, perfume, some brisk, fresh scent she couldn’t place. “Happy birthday, Mum,” her son hugged her quickly, as if pressed for time. Gifts, flowers, a password request from Daisy for the Wi-Fi. Her son, wincing, fished a slip of paper from his pocket and dictated an absurd mixture of letters and numbers that left her head spinning. “Nana, why aren’t you in the chat?” Tom asked, pulling off his trainers and drifting to the kitchen. “That’s where it all happens.” “What chat?” she scoffed, pushing pie toward him. “This phone’s enough for me.” “Mum,” her daughter-in-law chimed in, exchanging glances with her husband, “actually, we’ve… well, we’ve got a present.” Her son produced a neat white box, glossy, gently trembling in her hands: she guessed its contents immediately. “A smartphone,” he said, as if naming a diagnosis. “Nothing fancy but decent—camera, internet, all the trimmings.” “Why?” she tried to keep her voice steady. “Mum, it’s just… with this, we can do video calls,” her daughter-in-law spoke fast and sure. “We’ve got a family chat—photos and news all go there. Plus, nowadays everything’s online: appointments, bills. You’ve said yourself about the clinic queues.” “I’ll manage…” she started, only for her son to sigh gently. “Mum, it’d put our minds at ease. If something happens, you’re just a message away, no fiddling with that old button phone, trying to remember which is the green receiver.” He smiled to soften the words, but still, she felt a sting—“Find the green receiver” like she was already useless. “All right,” she said, lowering her eyes to the box, “if you insist.” The box was opened together, like gifts for children once were—but now the children were grown, and she felt more like a student at exam time. From inside, a black rectangle emerged, cool and slippery, no sign of a single button. “It’s all touch screen,” explained Tom, swiping a finger to awaken a rainbow of icons. Mrs. Parker flinched. It seemed some sly device ready to demand passwords and something else unfathomable. “Don’t be scared,” Daisy said, unexpectedly gentle. “We’ll set everything up. Just don’t press anything yourself—okay? Not until we explain.” Those words stung most of all. “Don’t press anything yourself.” Like a child who might smash a precious vase. After lunch, the family crammed into the living room. Her son sat beside her on the sofa, placed the smartphone on her lap. “Right, look,” he started. “This is the power button. Press and hold. That’s it. The screen lights up—then you swipe to unlock…” He moved too quickly: button, screen saver, lock. It sounded like a foreign language. “Wait,” she pleaded. “One thing at a time or I’ll forget.” “You won’t,” he brushed off. “It’s easy, you’ll get used to it.” She nodded—knowing she wouldn’t, not quickly. She needed time: time to accept that now the world lived inside these rectangles, and she had to squeeze in somehow. By evening, her new phone already held the numbers for her family, neighbour Mrs. Vicki, and the clinic. Her son installed a messenger, created her profile, added her to the family chat, set it to extra-large text. “See? This is our chat—here’s where we write,” he typed, producing a message to himself. Then her daughter-in-law chimed in: “Hurrah! Mum’s here!” Daisy replied with smiling emojis. “And how do I…?” she asked, bewildered. “Tap here,” her son pointed. “Type with the keyboard. Or, if not, hold the mic and speak.” She tried. Her fingers shook. “Thank you” came out “sran you.” Her son laughed, the others too, Daisy sent more emojis. “It’s OK,” her son reassured, seeing her tense. “Everyone gets it wrong at first.” She nodded, but felt ashamed, as though failing some simple test. When they left, silence returned. Uneaten pie, flowers, and the white smartphone box lay on the table. The device, screen down, seemed alien. She flipped it carefully, pressed the side button as shown; the screen glowed softly, displaying the family’s Christmas photo. She saw herself at the edge, in blue, eyebrow raised—like she already doubted whether she belonged there. She swiped, as taught—icons appeared. Phone, messages, camera, and more. She recalled her son’s warning: “Don’t press anything unnecessary.” But how to know what is “unnecessary”? She set the smartphone gently down and washed dishes, letting it adjust to the flat. The next morning she woke earlier. First thing, she checked the phone—still alien, but yesterday’s fear eased a little. It was just a thing. Things could be learned. Once, she’d mastered the microwave, too—though she’d feared it would explode. She made tea, sat, and pulled the smartphone closer. Turned it on, hand sweaty. The Christmas photo appeared. She swiped—found the green phone icon, somewhat comfortingly familiar, and pressed it. Her contacts: son, daughter-in-law, Daisy, Tom, Mrs. Vicki. She tapped her son’s name. The phone buzzed, stripes raced across the screen; she held it to her ear. “Hello?” her son answered, surprised. “Mum? All okay?” “Just testing,” she replied, oddly proud. “It worked.” “See!” he chuckled. “Told you so. Only, call on messenger next time, it’s cheaper.” “How?” she faltered. “I’ll show you later. I’m at work now.” She hung up, heart pounding, but warm inside: she’d managed—on her own. A couple hours later, her first family chat message arrived. The phone beeped; screen lit up. “Daisy: Nana, how are you?” Below, a reply field blinked. She stared at it a while, then pressed; the keyboard appeared, tiny letters, but just legible. She tapped: “I am fine. Drinking tea.” Misspelled “fine,” but let it go. Seconds later, Daisy replied: “Cool! Did you type that yourself?” followed by a heart. She smiled. Herself. Typed. Her words had landed where only others’ words used to flash. That evening, neighbour Mrs. Vicki popped by with jam. “So, I hear the youngsters got you one of those—smartphone thingies,” she said, taking off her boots. “Smartphone,” Mrs. Parker corrected—still a trendy word for her, but she enjoyed saying it. “And? Doesn’t bite?” Vicki smirked. “It mostly squeaks, so far,” she sighed. “No buttons at all.” “My grandson keeps nagging me too. Says you can’t manage without one now. I reckon it’s too late for me. I’ll let them play in their internet.” “Too late”—the phrase jabbed. Mrs. Parker had thought that herself. But now, in her living room, lay a thing trying to say the opposite: it’s not too late. You can still try. Two days later, her son rang—he’d booked her GP appointment online. “How online?” she asked. “Through the NHS app. Everything’s digital now. You could do it, too—I wrote out your log-in and password on the note in the phone drawer.” She found the neatly folded note—numbers and letters—like a prescription from the doctor: clear, but who knew how to use it? Next day, she steeled herself. Turned on the smartphone, found the browser icon, typed the address from the note—slowly, missing keys, backtracking, eventually the site loaded. Blues and whites and strange buttons. “Enter username,” she read aloud. “Password.” Username was fine; password harder—letters and numbers jumbling, keyboard vanishing and reappearing. She pressed wrong buttons, cleared the field, cursed softly, surprised by her own irritation. Finally, she set the phone down, picked up the landline, rang her son. “It’s no good—all your passwords are impossible!” “Mum, don’t worry,” he soothed. “I’ll drop by after work and walk you through it.” “You always pop by and show me,” she blurted, “then leave, and I’m alone with all this again.” A pause. “I know,” he replied. “I’ll bring Tom—he’s better at this.” She agreed, but hung up feeling heavy—useless, needing constant hand-holding. That evening, Tom arrived, shed trainers, sat on the sofa beside her. “Go on, Nana,” he said, “show me the problem.” She opened the site, confessed, “It’s all complicated—words, buttons. I’m scared to wreck something.” “You can’t break it,” he shrugged. “Worst is you get signed out. We’ll log in again.” He guided her gently—showing every button, language switch, appointment details. “Look,” he said, “here’s your booking—if you can’t attend, hit cancel.” “What if I cancel by accident?” “Then you’ll just rebook—not a disaster.” Easy for him. For her, a mountain. When he left, she sat with the phone, as if it tested her grit: login, password, error messages. Once, life was simple; now, every step asked for new skills. A week later, trouble: appointment missing, blood pressure up, heart sinking. Surely, she hadn’t cancelled? Panic rose, but her son was snowed under at work, Tom busy at uni; she hesitated calling—ashamed to be seen as hopeless again. She gathered herself, breathed deeply, tried again. Found and logged into the website, hands shaking, hit “Book appointment”—found a slot in three days’ time, confirmed. “You have successfully booked”—her name, date, time. She checked and rechecked—finally, relief. She’d managed—alone. Another step: she opened the messenger, found the GP chat, pressed record: “Hello, it’s Hope Parker—my blood pressure’s not great. I’ve rebooked for the morning after next. Please keep an eye open if you can.” Sent, little icon appeared. Shortly, a text from the GP: “SEE YOU IN SYSTEM. CALL IMMEDIATELY IF WORSE.” Tension eased; she’d done it—through this small screen. That evening, she messaged the family chat: “Booked doc myself online.” Another typo. Didn’t edit—meaning mattered more. Daisy replied first: “Wow! You’re cooler than me!” Daughter-in-law: “Mum—you legend! Proud of you.” Son: “See? Knew you could.” Reading their words, something inside softened. She hadn’t joined all their whizzing memes and jokes, but now a thread connected her—she could tug it and receive a reply. After the GP visit, she wanted to learn more. Daisy had once described how she and friends swapped photos of food, pets, silly things—sharing their days in pictures, while Mrs. Parker’s was radio and the back yard. One sunny afternoon, with glass jars sparkling on the sill, she opened the smartphone’s camera. Her kitchen appeared onscreen, framed neatly; she moved close to the seedlings, pressed the circle; a soft click. The photo came out blurry, but fine—green shoots poking through soil, streak of sunlight. She studied it—these tiny sprouts like herself with her phone, reaching toward the light, heavy earth beneath. She attached the photo in the family chat, wrote: “Tomatoes growing.” Sent. Replies soon rolled in: Daisy sent her messy study room; daughter-in-law a salad plate with “Learning from you”; her son a messy office selfie, tired but grinning: “Mum’s got tomatoes; I’ve got reports. Whose life’s winning?” She laughed as she read, and her kitchen no longer felt empty. As though, across towns and miles, her family was there with her. Of course, glitches happened. Once she accidentally sent a voice message of herself muttering at the TV into the group chat; grandchildren cracked up, son called her “star presenter”; she blushed, but then laughed, too—at least it was her real voice. Confusing chats, she’d sometimes text the entire group instead of Daisy individually—like asking how to delete a photo. She got clear instructions from Tom, “dunno myself” from Daisy, and a “You’re our pioneer!” meme from her daughter-in-law. She still muddled buttons; dreaded updates (“update system” sounded suspicious). Like someone wanted to change everything she’d just begun to understand. Yet, each day, fear faded. Now she could check bus schedules, weather, not just by radio but onscreen. Once, she even found an online recipe for the cake her mother baked; tears prickled her eyes over the ingredients. She didn’t tell anyone, just baked the cake and sent its photo in the chat: “Remembered grandma’s old cake.” Hearts, exclamation marks, recipe requests flooded in—she photographed her handwritten note and sent that, too. Gradually, the landline faded to the background. Still hanging on the wall, but no longer her only strand to the world. Now, an invisible wire—sturdy and true—connected her. One evening, dusk falling, windows lighting up across the road, she sat rereading the family group: her son’s work photos, Daisy’s selfies with mates, Tom’s jokes, newsy notes from her daughter-in-law. In between, her own now-less-hesitant posts: tomato shoots, recipe voice note, question about medicine. Suddenly, she realized—no longer an observer behind glass. She didn’t understand half the grandkids’ words, couldn’t do emojis as swiftly. Yet: her replies were read, her questions answered, her pictures liked, as Daisy put it. The phone beeped—a new message. Daisy: “Nana, algebra test tomorrow. Can I call after and vent?” She smiled. Typed slowly, carefully: “Of course. Always here for you.” Sent. She placed the smartphone beside her tea. The flat was quiet, but not empty; somewhere beyond walls and blocks, calls and messages waited. She’d not joined the “youth movement,” as Tom joked, but she’d found her own place in this world of screens. She finished her tea, stood, switched off the kitchen light, and glanced at her phone before leaving the room. The little black rectangle lay calmly on the table. She knew, when she wanted, she could reach out and connect with those she loved. And, for now, that was enough.

A Friend Betrayed: Grandad’s Story of Loyalty, Regret, and Making Things Right He Understood Me Completely! It Wasn’t Much Fun—Soon I Realised What a Foolish Idea This Was I Sold Him. He Thought It Was a Game, Until He Knew I’d Let Him Go Times Are Always Different For Everyone—Some Long for Luxuries, Others Settle for Black Bread and Sausage We Lived Our Ups and Downs, Each in Our Own Way I Was Just a Child Then—Uncle Tom, My Mum’s Brother, Gave Me a German Shepherd Puppy, and I Was Over the Moon. The Pup Grew Devoted, Understood Me Instantly, Gazed Into My Eyes Waiting for My Word “Lie Down,” I’d Say, and He’d Flatten Himself, Eyes Locked on Mine, Ready to Die for Me, it Seemed “Serve,” I Commanded, and He’d Leap to Attention, Tail Wagging, Eager for a Treat—But I Had Nothing. We Were Hungry Ourselves. Such Were the Times Uncle Tom, Who Gave Me The Pup, Told Me One Day: “Don’t Fret, Lad. Look How Loyal He Is. Sell Him—Then Call Him, He’ll Come Running Back. Nobody’ll See. You’ll Have Some Pennies for Sweets, for Both of You. Take My Word for It.” The Idea Seemed Grand—I Didn’t Think It Wrong. An Adult Told Me, After All. It Was Only a Joke, and Sweets Would Be Nice. I Whispered to Loyal in His Fluffy Warm Ear, Told Him I’d Give Him Away, But Call Him Back—He Understood Me, Barked in Agreement. Next Day, I Put His Lead On, Took Him to the Railway Station—Everyone Was Selling Something There: Flowers, Cucumbers, Apples… As Commuters Poured from Trains, Selling and Haggling Began. I Pulled Loyal Forward—But No Takers. Almost Everyone Had Passed, and Then a Stern-Faced Man Approached: “You Here for Someone, Sonny, or Looking to Sell That Fine Pup? He Is Strong—Alright, I’ll Buy.” Pressed Money in My Hand. I Handed Over the Lead; Loyal Waggled His Head and Sneezed Cheerfully. “Go On, Loyal, Go With This Man, I’ll Call You Soon, Run to Me,” I Whispered He Walked Off with the Stranger. I Hid and Watched Where He Went That Evening, I Brought Home Bread, Sausage and Sweets. Mum Scolded Me: “Where Did You Get That—You Didn’t Steal, Did You?” “No, Mum—I Helped Folks at the Station, They Gave Me Some Change.” “Well Done, then—Eat and Off to Bed, I’m Tired.” She Didn’t Even Ask About Loyal Uncle Tom Came by in the Morning as I Got Ready for School, Though I Wanted Only to Dash Off and Find Loyal “So, Sold Your Mate, Did You?” He Laughed, Ruffling My Hair I Pulled Away, Didn’t Answer—Couldn’t Eat or Sleep All Night for Thinking of Loyal. It Wasn’t Fun—I Knew Now What a Foolish Idea It Was No Wonder Mum Didn’t Like Uncle Tom “He’s No Good, Don’t Listen to Him,” She’d Always Said I Grabbed My Bag, Ran Three Streets to the Man’s House, Heart Thundering Loyal Sat Behind a Tall Fence, Tied by a Thick Rope I Called Him—He Gazed at Me Sadly, Resting His Head on His Paws, Wriggling His Tail, Trying to Bark, But His Voice Was Gone I’d Sold Him. He’d Thought It Was a Game, Until He Knew I’d Betrayed Him. The Man Came Out, Glared at Loyal—He Tucked in His Tail in Fear, and I Knew It Was Hopeless That Evening, I Earned the Right Money Lugging Parcels at the Station. Scared, I Knocked on the Gate at Dusk. The Man Squinted at Me: “What’s This, Boy?” “Sir, I… I’ve Changed My Mind. Here’s Your Money Back.” He Took It Without a Word, Loosened Loyal’s Rope: “Take Him. He Pines for You. He Won’t Make a Guard Dog, but Be Careful, Son—He May Never Forgive You.” Loyal Looked Drained, Eyes Full of Hurt The Game Had Become a Trial for Both of Us Then He Came Over, Licked My Hand, Nudged Me in the Stomach with His Nose Years Have Passed, But I Learned This—You Never, Not Even in Jest, Sell Your Friends Mum Was Thrilled: “I Was So Tired Last Night, Then Wondered, ‘Where’s Our Dog?’ I’m Used to Him Now. He’s Ours—Our Loyal!” After That, Uncle Tom Stopped Dropping In—We Didn’t Much Care for His Jokes Anymore