“He’s the Only One Who Understands Me”
“What’s for lunch?” asked Edward, sniffing the air. “Are you cooking something?”
“I am. Biscuits for Monty. Turkey and oats,” replied Emily with pride, pulling out a baking tray. “He’s going through a rough patch right now. Shedding season, grooming, his mood’s all over the place. Thought I’d spoil him a bit.”
She bustled around the table in a short dressing gown the colour of clotted cream. At her feet, Monty—a tiny, fluffy Pomeranian with the eyes of a devoted cult follower—bounced and yipped excitedly.
Edward didn’t share their enthusiasm. He’d rushed home from work for lunch, but it seemed the only one eating well today was Monty.
“Right. Lovely,” he drawled. “And what about *our* lunch?”
“Dunno. You could fry some eggs. Or order something. You always say you don’t care what you eat anyway.”
He didn’t argue. Because he *had* said that. Because fighting over food seemed petty.
Emily had gotten Monty long before she met Edward. When she was nineteen, her mother died. Her father, unsure how to comfort her, had simply brought home a puppy.
Since then, Monty had been the centre of her world. When she moved in with Edward—or rather, insisted he let her into his two-bed flat in Manchester—Monty, of course, came first. Literally. In an enormous carrier on the front seat of the taxi, right by the heater so he wouldn’t get cold.
Edward hadn’t minded. Back then, he’d found it sweet how she talked to the dog, how she fussed over him. Three years on, that tender affection had started to feel like an unhealthy obsession. And it didn’t extend to anyone else.
Edward ate instant noodles in silence, leaning against the sink. Joan showed up just in time. She always seemed to *sense* when something was off with her son’s family. She stepped inside with a bag containing a tub of soup, a pack of cottage cheese, and a neatly foil-wrapped chicken breast.
“So, how’s married life?” she chirped from the doorway.
“Fine, Mum. Emily’s baking treats for Monty.”
“Ah, Monty again. Well, at least it’s not for guests. I accidentally tried his ‘delicacies’ once,” she joked, hiding a barb in the jest.
Emily either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it. She stepped aside to let her mother-in-law in, beaming.
“We’ve got turkey biscuits today! Fancy a try? No liver this time, it’s a new recipe.”
“No, thanks. I roasted chicken this morning. For *humans*,” Joan replied, heading straight for the fridge.
Her sharp eyes scanned the contents—yoghurts, a carton of milk, a jar of jam. The same one she’d given them six months ago.
Meanwhile, on a separate shelf, neatly arranged containers of Monty’s meals sat labelled, with little hand-drawn hearts on colourful sticky notes.
“Right. Priorities,” Joan muttered, shutting the fridge.
Edward sighed and moved to leave—early, hungry, heavy-hearted. He still told himself it was trivial, that things would settle, that they’d work it out. But something wasn’t clicking.
A year passed. A lot had changed. At the very least, there was a new addition to the family—Emily had given birth to a boy, Oliver. At first, Joan had hoped motherhood would straighten her daughter-in-law’s priorities.
Reality quickly dashed that hope.
Joan heard the screams from the landing. Long, choking, desperate. A child’s cries.
“What on earth is going on here?!” she shouted, pushing past Emily.
Her heart plummeted when she entered the bedroom. Oliver lay on the bed, red-faced and tear-soaked, his nappy bunched beneath him. Worst of all, Monty was beside him, licking the baby’s face as if comforting him.
“Have you lost your mind?!” Joan snapped, grabbing the dog by the scruff.
Monty snarled and squirmed. Emily hurried in after her, lips pursed in irritation. When she saw what was happening, she snatched Monty back, cradling him to her chest.
“Why are you shouting? He was just calming him down! Poor Monty’s had a hard day—he had his shots today!” She scowled, shielding the dog with her hands. “You scared him!”
“*He’s* the victim?! And the baby, what—just singing, is he?” Joan was nearly breathless with outrage.
Emily rolled her eyes and reluctantly approached Oliver. She looked at him with weary indifference before turning toward the kitchen.
“I’ll warm his bottle.”
Joan picked up the baby. The nappy was soaked. An empty bottle lay on the floor—probably a spare. Teeth marks marred the teat. Oliver didn’t *have* teeth yet…
That left Monty. Unless Emily had chewed it herself. At this point, Joan wouldn’t put it past her.
She carried Oliver to the kitchen, where Emily was mixing formula. Her movements were slow, lazy. The baby’s hiccupping sobs continued behind her, but she didn’t even glance back.
“Why isn’t he breastfed?” Joan asked sharply.
“What, you want me stuck on those diets? No cheese, no oranges, no cabbage? No thanks. I love myself too much.”
“And him—not at all?” Joan’s voice was ice.
Emily turned slowly. Her pupils were pinpricks, fists clenched. Monty rubbed against her leg, but it did nothing to soothe her.
“Listen. You’re in *my* home, spouting accusations. Want to make me a checklist for life while you’re at it?”
“I came because my grandson’s screaming his lungs out while you’re cooking *porridge* for your dog! Are you a mother or what?”
Emily hurled the bottle into the sink. The crash sent Monty whimpering under the table.
“Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?! This is *my* house, *my* child, *my* Monty!”
“Monty’s clearly your priority! You’re sick! A dog matters more than your own baby!”
“At least *he* doesn’t scream non-stop,” Emily spat, storming off.
The front door clicked open. Edward walked in, took in the scene—his mother holding Oliver, Emily’s contorted face—and froze. Wrong time, wrong place.
“What’s going on?”
“Ask your wife,” Joan said quietly, though it cost her. “Oliver’s soaked, starving, screaming. That dog’s been licking his face after licking God knows what. And your wife? Cooking for Monty. She’s unhinged.”
“Mum, come on… she’s just tired. You know how it is. The baby, the routine, no sleep… Postnatal depression.”
“This isn’t depression,” Joan cut in. “It’s neglect. It won’t end well, son.”
They managed to fix a bottle and fed Oliver. Meanwhile, Emily sat alone in the bedroom, rocking Monty like a baby. It wasn’t cute anymore.
Six months later, Edward was staying late at work—not always for overtime, but because home had become a sticky, silent gloom. No more shouting. Emily didn’t even yell when angry now. She just looked *through* him, as if he were a lodger.
That day was like any other. Monty crunched on his premium kibble. Edward ate a banana on the go. Emily was well-rested—Oliver had barely cried the night before, earning a muttered *about time*. An early meeting pulled Edward out the door, leaving Emily alone with the baby and the dog.
Normally, he’d watch Oliver while she took Monty for his morning walk. But today, she hadn’t gotten round to it. Half an hour later, the Pomeranian grew restless, pawing at the door. Time to go.
Oliver was asleep in his playpen. Emily threw on a jacket, tugged up her hood, and headed out with Monty. She didn’t bother moving the baby—if he woke, he’d just start crying. The longer he slept, the better.
The weather was overcast but mild. Monty sniffed at the grass while Emily scrolled through her phone. A post showed a happy family with the caption: *Loyalty and care—that’s what matters most*. She absently liked it.
Her priority was right beside her. With a tail and a leather collar.
Meanwhile, Oliver woke. The playpen was half under the table—space was tight in their small kitchen. Trying to stand, he grabbed the tablecloth. A large mug—a Mother’s Day gift—slid off. It didn’t break. But it had been full of hot tea.
Emily heard the screams before she’d even opened the door. She turned the key without urgency, stepped inside—and froze. Angry red splotches mottled the baby’s arm. Dark teaThe mug lay on its side beside him, and in that moment, Edward—returning for his forgotten keys—stood in the doorway, finally understanding he would never come first, not even to his own child.
