“He’s the only one who understands me.”
“What’s for lunch?” Mark asked, sniffing the air. “Are you cooking something?”
“I am. Biscuits for Lord. Turkey and oats,” Lily replied with pride, pulling a tray from the oven. “He’s going through a rough patch right now. Shedding season, grooming stress—his mood’s all over the place. Thought I’d spoil him.”
She flitted around the kitchen in a short, creamy dressing gown. At her feet, Lord—a tiny, fluffy Pomeranian with the devoted gaze of a cult follower—bounced and yipped excitedly.
Mark didn’t share their enthusiasm. He’d rushed home from work for lunch, only to realise lunch today was for Lord alone.
“Brilliant,” he drawled. “So, what are *we* having?”
“Dunno. You could make scrambled eggs. Or we could order something. You always say you don’t care what you eat anyway.”
He didn’t argue. Because he *had* said it. Because fighting over meals seemed petty.
Lily had Lord long before she met Mark. When she was nineteen, her mother died. Her father, clueless how to comfort her, brought home a puppy instead.
From then on, Lord became her world. When she moved in with Mark—or rather, insisted he let her into his two-bed London flat—Lord, naturally, went first. Literally. In an oversized carrier on the front seat of the cab, right by the heater so he wouldn’t get cold.
Mark hadn’t minded then. He’d found it sweet, the way she talked to the dog, fussed over him. Three years later, that same devotion had warped into something darker—an obsession that left no room for anyone else.
Mark ate instant noodles silently by the sink. His mother, Margaret, arrived as if she’d sensed the tension through sheer maternal instinct. She breezed in with a bag containing homemade soup, a tub of cottage cheese, and foil-wrapped chicken breast.
“So, how’s married life?” she chirped from the doorway.
“Fine, Mum. Lily’s baking Lord a treat.”
“Oh, *Lord* again. Well, at least it’s not for guests—last time I accidentally tried his ‘delicacies’.” The joke carried a sting.
Lily pretended not to hear. She stepped aside, flashing a bright smile.
“It’s turkey biscuits today! No liver—new recipe. Fancy a bite?”
“No, thanks. I roasted chicken this morning. For *humans*,” Margaret replied, heading straight for the fridge.
Her sharp eyes took inventory. Yoghurts, milk, a jar of jam—the very one she’d given them six months ago. Meanwhile, a separate shelf held neatly labelled containers for Lord, adorned with heart-shaped stickers.
“Right. Priorities,” Margaret muttered, shutting the door.
Mark sighed and grabbed his coat, leaving early, stomach hollow, heart heavier. He still told himself it was just a phase—things would settle. But somehow, they never did.
A year passed. Some things changed—like the new baby, James. At first, Margaret hoped the arrival might shake some sense into her daughter-in-law.
Reality shattered that illusion fast.
She heard the screams from the hallway. Gasping, desperate, *childish* wails.
“What on earth is going on?!” she barked, shoving past Lily.
Her heart plummeted when she saw James—flushed, tear-soaked, tangled in a sodden onesie. Worse, Lord was licking his face, as if to comfort him.
“Have you *lost your mind*?!” Margaret snatched the dog by the scruff.
Lord snarled and twisted free. Lily scurried in behind her, scowling. Seeing the scene, she yanked Lord back, cradling him like a baby.
“Stop shouting! He was just soothing him! Poor Lord had his jabs today—you *frightened* him!”
“*He’s* the victim?!” Margaret spat. “And the baby—what, practising opera?”
Lily rolled her eyes and trudged to James. She studied him with weary detachment, then turned away.
“I’ll warm his bottle.”
Margaret scooped him up. The onesie was soaked. An empty bottle lay nearby—the teat gnawed. James had no teeth yet…
Only Lord could’ve done it. Unless Lily had chewed it herself. At this point, nothing would surprise her.
She carried James to the kitchen, where Lily stirred formula, unhurried. The baby’s cries faded behind her, ignored.
“Why isn’t he breastfed?” Margaret demanded.
“Expect me to live on lettuce and water? No thanks. I *like* my body.”
“But not his?” Margaret’s voice dripped ice.
Lily turned slowly, fists clenched. Lord nuzzled her leg, but it didn’t calm her.
“Listen. You barge in here, dictating my life—want a bloody manual too?”
“I barged in because my grandson’s screaming while you cook *porridge for your dog*! Are you his mother or what?”
Lily slammed the bottle into the sink. Lord whimpered and cowered under the table.
“And who the hell are *you* to judge? *My* house, *my* child, *my* Lord!”
“That dog’s *first* in your life! You’re *sick*!”
“At least he doesn’t *scream*,” Lily hissed, storming off.
The front door clicked open. Mark froze, taking in the scene—his mother clutching James, Lily’s venomous glare.
“What’s happened?”
“Ask your *wife*,” Margaret rasped. “James is soaked, starving, that *dog’s* licking his face after licking God-knows-what, and she’s making *Lord* a feast. She’s *unhinged*.”
“Mum, she’s just tired. Postnatal blues—”
“This isn’t *blues*. It’s neglect. And it’ll end badly, Mark.”
They mixed the formula in tense silence. Lily sat in the bedroom, rocking Lord like an infant.
It wasn’t sweet anymore.
Six months later, Mark worked late—sometimes by necessity, often by choice. The flat brimmed with thick, suffocating quiet. No more rows—Lily didn’t shout now. She just *looked through* him, as if he were a lodger.
That morning played out like every other. Lord crunched his premium kibble. Mark swallowed a banana on the go. Lily, well-rested for once, barely acknowledged James’ quiet night with a muttered *”about time.”*
Then the office called him in early.
Normally, he watched James while Lily walked Lord. But today, she hadn’t taken him yet. Half an hour later, the dog whined at the door.
James napped in his playpen. Lily threw on a coat, tugged up her hood, and left. No point disturbing him—sleep meant less screaming.
The park was grey but mild. Lord sniffed grass while Lily scrolled, liking a post: *”Loyalty and care—that’s what matters.”*
Her *loyalty* had four legs and a leather collar.
Meanwhile, James woke. The playpen, wedged half under the table in their cramped kitchen, wobbled as he grabbed the tablecloth—dragging down a mug, a Mother’s Day gift. It didn’t break.
But the tea inside was still hot.
Lily heard the shrieks from the hallway. She unlocked the door, stepped inside—and froze.
Red splotches bloomed across James’ arm. Tea stains darkened his white pillow. The mug lay overturned.
“Christ,” she breathed, darting forward—then stopping to shut the kitchen door, blocking Lord out before grabbing James.
Mark returned five minutes later, having forgotten his keys. The screams drew him to the nursery, where Lily frantically searched for cream.
His face darkened.
“What *happened*?”
“I—I only stepped out for 15 minutes! He was *asleep*!” Her voice shook—not with guilt, but fear of being caught.
“You left him *alone*—for the *dog*?” Mark loomed over her. “Are you *insane*?”
“Stop yelling! It’s just a *burn*!”
“A *burn*? Listen to yourself!” He stepped back, not to scare James further. “You blow *my* money on Lord’s gourmet meals, kiss his arse, but our *son*—you abandon?”
“You don’t *get it*!” Lily screamed. “I’m *exhausted*! You’re never here! Lord’s the only one who *understands* me!”
The silence that followed was tomb-deep.
Yes, Mark worked. But his salary gave her comforts she’d once only dreamed of. The very reason she’d chosen him.
He looked at her then—no patience, no excuses left. This wasn’t a rough patch.
This was *her*.
“Then be with him,” he said quietly. “Leave *us* alone.”
Lily flinched but didn’t cry.She walked out without looking back, clinging to the only love she’d ever truly known, while James’ laughter eventually filled the quiet spaces she’d left behind.
