**The Only One Who Understands Me**
*”What’s for lunch?”* asked George, sniffing the air. *”Are you cooking something?”*
*”I am,”* replied Emily with pride, pulling a baking tray from the oven. *”Biscuits for Lord. Turkey and oats. He’s going through a rough patch—shedding season, grooming, mood swings. Thought I’d treat him.”*
She flitted around the kitchen in a cream-coloured dressing gown, while Lord—a tiny, fluffy Pomeranian with the eyes of a cult follower—bounced at her feet, yapping joyfully.
George did not share their enthusiasm. He’d dashed home from work for lunch, only to discover lunch was strictly for Lord today.
*”Brilliant,”* he sighed. *”And what about us?”*
*”Dunno. Scramble some eggs? Or order something. You always say you don’t care what we eat anyway.”*
He didn’t argue. Because he *had* said that. Because arguing over food seemed petty.
Emily had gotten Lord long before she met George. When she was nineteen, her mother passed away. Her dad, unsure how to comfort her, had brought home a puppy.
From then on, Lord became the centre of her universe. When she moved in with George—or rather, *insisted* he let her into his two-bed London flat—Lord went first. Literally. In an enormous carrier on the taxi’s front seat, close to the heater so he wouldn’t catch a chill.
George hadn’t minded at first. Back then, he found it endearing—the way she talked to the dog, the way she fussed. Three years later, that tender affection had started to resemble an unhealthy obsession. And unfortunately, it didn’t extend to anyone else.
Silently, George slurped instant noodles over the sink. Valerie arrived at just the right moment—almost as if she could *sense* the state of her son’s marriage. She marched in with a bag containing homemade soup, cottage cheese, and a neatly foil-wrapped chicken breast.
*”So, how’s married life treating you?”* she chirped from the doorway.
*”Fine, Mum. Emily’s baking treats for Lord.”*
*”Oh, Lord again. At least it’s not for guests—I still remember *accidentally* tasting his *special snacks* once,”* she joked, lacing the humour with just a hint of venom.
Emily either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it. She stepped aside, smiling brightly.
*”We’ve got turkey biscuits today! Want to try? No liver this time—new recipe.”*
*”No, thank you. I roasted a chicken this morning. For humans,”* Valerie replied, beelining for the fridge.
Her sharp eyes skimmed the contents: yoghurts, milk, a jar of jam—the same one she’d given them six months ago. Meanwhile, an entire shelf was dedicated to Lord’s meals—neatly labelled tupperware, heart-shaped stickers, meticulous organisation.
*”Right. Priorities,”* Valerie muttered, slamming the fridge shut.
George sighed and left—early, hungry, with a sinking feeling. He kept telling himself this was just a phase, that things would settle. But somehow, they never did.
A year later, a lot had changed. For one, there was a new addition: Emily had given birth to a boy, Alfie. At first, Valerie hoped motherhood would snap her daughter-in-law into shape.
Reality quickly dashed those hopes.
Valerie heard Alfie’s wails from the hallway—long, gasping, desperate cries.
*”What on earth is going on?!”* she shouted, shoving past Emily.
Her heart dropped when she saw Alfie—red-faced, tear-soaked, tangled in a damp blanket. Worst of all? Lord was licking his face, as if *he* were the one in distress.
*”Have you lost your mind?!”* Valerie grabbed the dog by the scruff.
Lord snarled, thrashing. Emily scurried in, lips pursed, snatching him back.
*”Stop shouting! He was comforting him! Poor Lord’s had such a hard day—he had his jabs today!”* She cradled the dog protectively. *”You scared him!”*
*”*He’s* the victim?! And the baby—what, is he *singing*?”*
Emily rolled her eyes and reluctantly trudged to Alfie, eyeing him with detached exhaustion before turning away.
*”I’ll warm his bottle.”*
Valerie picked him up. The blanket was soaked. An empty bottle lay on the floor—bite marks on the teat. Alfie had no teeth yet…
There was only one culprit. Unless Emily had gnawed it herself. At this point, nothing would surprise Valerie.
She carried Alfie to the kitchen, where Emily was lazily stirring formula. The baby whimpered behind her, but she didn’t even glance back.
*”Why isn’t he breastfed?”* Valerie demanded.
*”What, you want me on those insane diets? No cheese, no citrus, no cabbage? Sorry, I love myself too much for that.”*
*”But not him?”* Valerie’s voice was ice.
Emily slowly turned. Her pupils were pinpricks, fists clenched. Lord nuzzled her leg, but it did nothing to calm her.
*”Listen. You waltz into *my* home with a list of demands. Why don’t you just write me a manual on how to live?”*
*”I came because my grandson’s screaming his lungs out while you cook *Lord’s* dinner! Are you a mother or what?”*
Emily hurled the bottle into the sink. Lord yelped and cowered under the table.
*”Who the hell do you think you are? *My* home, *my* child, *my* Lord!”*
*”Clearly, *Lord* comes first! You’re sick! A dog matters more than your own son?”*
*”At least he doesn’t scream non-stop,”* Emily spat, storming out.
The front door clicked open. George walked in, took one look at his mother holding Alfie, his wife’s twisted expression, and instantly knew—he’d walked into a warzone.
*”What’s happened?”*
*”Ask your wife,”* Valerie said quietly, jaw tight. *”Alfie’s soaked, starving, while your *beloved* Lord licks his face after licking God-knows-what. And your wife? Cooking *Lord’s* gourmet meal. Absolutely mental.”*
*”Mum, come on—she’s just tired. Baby, chores, no sleep… Postnatal depression.”*
*”This isn’t depression,”* Valerie cut in. *”It’s indifference. And it won’t end well, son.”*
They managed to feed Alfie together. Meanwhile, Emily sat alone in the bedroom, cradling Lord like a baby.
It wasn’t cute anymore.
Six months later, George was “working late” more often—sometimes for real, sometimes just to avoid going home. The flat was thick with quiet tension. No shouting. Emily didn’t even yell now—she just looked *through* him, as if he were a lodger.
That morning, everything was normal. Lord crunched his premium kibble, George gulped down a banana on the go, and Emily—well rested, since Alfie had *finally* slept through the night—gave a bored *”about time.”* Rushed out early, George left her with Alfie and Lord.
Usually, he watched Alfie while she walked Lord. Today, she hadn’t had time. Within half an hour, Lord whined by the door—he needed out.
Alfie was napping in his playpen. Without a second thought, Emily threw on a jacket, hood up, and took Lord outside. Alfie could stay asleep—less screaming that way.
The weather was grey but mild. Lord sniffed the grass while Emily scrolled through her phone. A post caught her eye: *”Family is about loyalty and care.”* She liked it absently.
Her *family* was right there—with a tail and a leather collar.
Meanwhile, Alfie woke up. The playpen was half under the table (space was tight). Trying to stand, he grabbed the tablecloth—yanking down a large mug, a Mother’s Day gift. It didn’t break. But the tea inside was still hot.
Emily heard his screams from the hallway. She fiddled with the key, stepped inside—and froze. Red splotches bloomed on Alfie’s arm. The once-white cushions were stained. The mug lay smashed.
*”Christ,”* she breathed, rushing over.
Alfie choked on sobs. First, she shut the kitchen door—*Lord couldn’t see this*—then gingerly picked him up.
Five minutes later, George burst in—he’d forgotten his USB drive. The screams sent him sprinting to the nursery, where Emily was frantically digging for nappy rash cream.
His face darkened.
*”What the hell happened?!”*
*”I—George took Alfie in his arms, handed him to his mother, and quietly said, “Take him—I’ll deal with the rest,” before turning to face Emily for the last time.
