I cut ties with my own mum because of the dog. And I don’t regret a thing.
My life didn’t turn upside down the day my husband and I adopted a rescue dog, or even when I found out I was finally pregnant after years of fertility treatments and tears. Everything changed when my own mother, who I’d always been close to, suddenly became an enemy—not to me, no. To my dog.
Rocky came into our lives eight years ago. A puppy with sad eyes, a rough past, but the biggest heart. Oliver and I fell for him straight away—he became like a son to us, especially when all our attempts to have a baby ended in heartbreak. We took care of him, brought him to the vet, worked with a trainer, socialised him properly. He turned into the perfect house dog—gentle, calm, loyal. We built our little quiet life: me, my husband, and our Rocky.
When, after years of struggle, I finally saw those two lines on the test, the whole world felt brighter. We cried with happiness. My mum and mother-in-law seemed happy too, at first—but that didn’t last. The joy quickly turned into accusations and panic.
“You have to get rid of that dog immediately! Are you mad? Hair everywhere! Allergies! He’ll bite the baby!” Mum shrieked.
“Find someone to take him! This is a child we’re talking about—he’s more important than a dog!” my mother-in-law chimed in, rolling her eyes.
Oliver and I tried to explain calmly: Rocky wasn’t a threat. The house was spotless—we had a robot vacuum, everything was hygienic. He was family. We weren’t “rehoming” him. But they wouldn’t back down. Mum rang ten times a day, sobbing down the phone that I was ruining my unborn baby. My mother-in-law had meltdowns at Oliver. The pressure built, and there I was, six months pregnant, lying awake at night, clutching my belly in panic.
“One more word, and you won’t be welcome here again,” Oliver told them, dead serious.
After the baby was born, they went quiet—for a little while.
When I came home from hospital with our son, the first thing I did was go to Rocky. He’d been waiting by the door, whining. I crouched down and hugged him. Mum and mother-in-law exchanged looks. And the next day, when the baby got a rash, they lost it.
“It’s the dog hair! This is all the dog’s fault! Are you insane?” Mum screeched.
“You let the dog sleep near the baby? Your own mother would die of shame!” my mother-in-law added.
I stayed silent. But Oliver had had enough. He kicked them both out.
Then came the threats. Straight up. First, “We’ll poison the dog—it’s not hard!” Then, “We’ll report you to social services!” Mum even said she’d file a complaint—that my child was living in filth, sharing a home with a dog. That I should lose custody, that I was “deranged” for valuing an animal over my baby.
Filth? My home was cleaner than a private hospital. I mopped floors twice a day. Checked the baby’s food, monitored air humidity, washed his clothes separately. But what did any of that matter when someone had already decided to hate?
I told my mum firmly: one call to social services, and she’d never see her grandson again. Ever.
Since then—silence. Sometimes it hurts. She’s still my mum, after all. But Rocky is family too. He was there when we couldn’t have a baby. He kept us warm on the coldest days. He’s not a threat. He’s love.
I didn’t give him up, and I never will. And if I had to choose between blackmail and the right to live in peace with the ones I love—I chose the second. And I don’t regret it.
