My life turned upside down—not the day my husband and I adopted a rescue dog, and not even when I found out I was finally pregnant after years of treatment and tears. Everything changed when my own mum, who I’d always been close to, suddenly became an enemy—not mine, no. My dog’s.
Rocky came into our lives eight years ago. A puppy with sad eyes, a rough past, but the biggest heart. Me and James fell in love with him instantly—he became like a son to us, especially after years of struggling to have a baby. We cared for him, took him to the vet, worked with a trainer, socialised him properly. He turned into the perfect family dog—gentle, calm, dependable. We built our quiet little life—just me, James, and our Rocky.
When, after years of trying, I saw those two lines on the test, the world felt brighter. We cried with joy. My mum and mother-in-law pretended to be happy, but soon the excitement turned into accusations.
“You have to get rid of that dog! Are you mad? The hair everywhere! Allergies! He’ll bite the baby!” my mum shrieked.
“You need to rehome him! A baby comes first—how can you even compare?” my mother-in-law chimed in, rolling her eyes.
We tried to explain calmly—Rocky wasn’t a threat. The house was spotless, we had a robot vacuum, hygiene was top priority. The dog was family. No one was “rehoming” him. But the older generation wouldn’t back down. Mum called ten times a day, sobbing that I was ruining my unborn child. Mother-in-law berated James. The pressure built until I lay awake at night, six months pregnant, clutching my belly in anxiety.
“One more word, and you won’t be welcome here,” James told them, dead serious.
After the birth, they went quiet—but not for long.
When I brought our son home from the hospital, the first thing I did was go to Rocky—he’d been waiting by the door, whining for us. I crouched down and hugged him. Mum and mother-in-law exchanged looks. And when our baby developed a rash the next day, they lost it.
“It’s the dog hair! That mutt is dangerous—have you lost your mind?” Mum screamed.
“You let a dog near a newborn! Your own mother would die of shame!” Mother-in-law added.
I stayed silent. But James had had enough. He kicked them both out.
Then the threats started. Straight-up—”We’ll poison that dog, no trouble!” Then—”We’ll report you to social services!” Mum swore she’d file a complaint—that our son was living in filth, sharing a home with a dog. That I was “unfit,” that I cared more about an animal than my baby.
Filth? My home was cleaner than a private hospital. I mopped floors twice a day, sterilised bottles, washed baby clothes separately. But none of that mattered to someone whose mind was set on hate.
I told my mum, firm and clear—take one step toward reporting us, and you’ll never see your grandson again. Never.
Since then—silence. Sometimes it hurts. She’s still my mum. But Rocky is family too. He was there when we couldn’t have a baby. He kept us warm on the coldest nights. He’s not a threat. He’s love.
I didn’t give him up, and I never will. If I had to choose between blackmail and living in peace with the ones I love—I chose peace. And I don’t regret it.
