He Alone Understands Me
“What’s for lunch?” Edward sniffed the air. “Are you cooking something?”
“I am. Biscuits for Max. With turkey and oats,” replied Emily proudly, pulling a baking tray from the oven. “He’s going through a rough patch. Shedding season, grooming, his mood keeps shifting. Thought I’d treat him.”
Emily bustled around the table in a short dressing gown the colour of clotted cream. At her feet leaped Max—a small, fluffy Pomeranian with the eyes of a devoted follower. He yapped and whimpered with excitement.
Edward did not share their enthusiasm. He’d rushed home from work for lunch, but it seemed today’s meal was reserved for Max alone.
“Right. Brilliant,” he muttered. “And what about *our* lunch?”
“Dunno. You could fry some eggs. Or we could order something. You always say it doesn’t matter what you eat.”
He didn’t argue. Because he *had* said that. Because fighting over food seemed petty.
Emily had adopted Max long before meeting Edward. When she was nineteen, her mother died. Her father, unsure how to comfort his daughter, had simply brought home a puppy.
Since then, Max had become the centre of her world. When she moved in with Edward—or rather, insisted he let her into his two-bedroom flat in London—Max, naturally, went first. Literally. In an enormous carrier on the taxi’s front seat, near the heater, so he wouldn’t get cold.
Edward hadn’t objected. Back then, he’d found it endearing—how she talked to the dog, how she cared for him. Three years later, that tender affection now felt more like pathological obsession. And, alas, it did not extend to anyone else.
Edward ate instant noodles in silence, standing by the sink. Margaret arrived almost on cue. She had a sixth sense for her son’s domestic troubles. She entered with a bag containing a tub of soup, a pot of cottage cheese, and a neatly foil-wrapped chicken breast.
“Well, how are the newlyweds?” she asked brightly from the doorway.
“Fine, Mum. Emily’s baking treats for Max.”
“Oh, Max again. Well, at least it’s not for guests. I once had the misfortune of tasting his *delicacies*,” she quipped, her jest laced with venom.
Emily either didn’t notice the jab or chose to ignore it. She stepped aside, letting her mother-in-law pass, beaming.
“We’ve got turkey biscuits today! Want to try? No liver—this is a new recipe.”
“No, thank you. I roasted chicken this morning. For *humans*,” Margaret replied, heading straight for the fridge.
Her practised eye scanned the contents—yogurts, milk, a half-finished jar of jam. The same one she’d given them six months ago.
Meanwhile, a separate shelf was neatly arranged with Max’s meals—labelled, with little hearts drawn on colourful stickers.
“Right. Max first, as always,” Margaret muttered, shutting the door.
Edward sighed and left early—hungry, heavy-hearted. He still told himself it was all trivial, that things would settle, that they’d work it out. But somehow, they never did.
A year passed. Much changed. At the very least, there was a new addition—Emily had given birth to a boy, Thomas. At first, Margaret hoped this would straighten out her daughter-in-law’s priorities.
Reality quickly sobered her.
She heard the cries before she’d even reached the door. Desperate, choking, the wails of a child.
“What on earth is going on here?!” she shouted, pushing past Emily.
When Margaret entered the bedroom, her heart dropped. Thomas lay on the bed, crimson from crying, his face slick with tears. His nappy was soaked. But worst of all—Max was beside him, licking the baby’s face, as if trying to comfort him.
“Have you lost your mind?!” Margaret barked, seizing the dog by the scruff.
Max snarled and writhed. Emily hurried in, scowling, lips pursed. Seeing the scene, she snatched Max back, clutching him to her chest.
“Why are you shouting? He was just calming him! Poor Max had a horrible day—he had his shots today!” Emily scowled, cupping the dog’s head. “*You* scared him!”
“*He’s* the victim here?! And the baby, what—is he *singing*?” Margaret could barely breathe from outrage.
Emily rolled her eyes and reluctantly approached Thomas. She glanced at him with weary indifference, then turned toward the kitchen.
“I’ll warm his bottle.”
Margaret picked up the baby. The nappy was drenched. An empty bottle lay on the floor—perhaps a spare. The teat bore tooth marks. Thomas had no teeth yet…
It had to be Max. Unless Emily had chewed it herself. By now, Margaret wouldn’t have been surprised.
She carried Thomas to the kitchen, where Emily was mixing formula—slowly, lazily. The baby still sobbed behind her, but she didn’t even turn.
“Why isn’t he breastfed?” Margaret demanded.
“What, you expect me to feed him myself? Stuck on those diets? No thank you. No cheese, no cabbage, no oranges… I love myself too much for that.”
“And not *him*?” Margaret’s voice dripped with disdain.
Emily turned slowly. Her pupils were pinpricks, her fists clenched. Max rubbed against her leg, but it didn’t soothe her.
“Listen. You waltz in here with a list of demands. Shall I draft you a manual on how to live my life?”
“I came to help because my grandson was screaming like his life depended on it—and you, by the smell of it, were cooking porridge for *Max*! Are you a mother or what?”
Emily hurled the bottle into the sink. Max yelped at the crash and hid under the table.
“Who are *you* to tell me what to do? This is *my* home, *my* child, and *my* Max!”
“Max clearly comes first! You’re sick! A dog matters more than your own child?”
“At least *he* doesn’t scream nonstop,” Emily spat, storming off.
Just then, the door opened. Edward walked in, took in the scene—his mother holding Thomas, Emily’s twisted expression—and knew he’d walked into the wrong place at the wrong time.
“What’s happened?”
“Ask your wife,” Margaret said quietly, though it cost her. “Thomas was soaked, starving, wailing. The dog was licking his face after licking God-knows-what. And your wife—cooking for *Max*. She’s unhinged.”
“Mum, she’s just tired. You know how it is. The baby, the housework, no sleep… Postnatal depression.”
“This isn’t depression,” Margaret cut in. “It’s indifference. And it won’t end well, son.”
They managed to mix formula and feed Thomas. Meanwhile, Emily sat alone in the bedroom, rocking Max like a baby.
It no longer seemed sweet.
Six months later, Edward stayed late at work more often—sometimes busy, sometimes just reluctant to go home. A thick silence had settled over his household. No more arguments. Emily didn’t shout anymore, even when angry. She just stared through him, as if he were merely a lodger.
That day was like any other. Max crunched on his premium kibble. Edward ate a banana on the go. Emily had slept well—Thomas had barely cried the night before, earning a muttered *about time*. Then Edward was called in early, leaving his wife alone with the baby and the dog.
Normally, he watched Thomas while Emily took Max for his morning walk. But today, she hadn’t had time. Within half an hour, Max began pawing at the door, whining. Time to go.
Thomas was asleep in his playpen. Without hesitation, Emily threw on a coat, pulled up the hood, and took Max out. She didn’t bother moving the baby—if he woke, he’d just start crying again. The longer he slept, the better.
The sky was grey but warm. Max sniffed the grass while Emily scrolled her phone. A post flashed up—a photo of a happy family with the caption: *The most important thing is love and loyalty*. Emily absently liked it.
Her object of devotion was right beside her. With a tail and a leather collar.
Meanwhile, Thomas woke. The playpen had been half-pushed under the table—space was tight in the small kitchen. As he tried 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 scalding tea.
Emily heard the screams from the hallway. She unlocked the door without hurry, then froze. Red welts bloomed on Thomas’s arm. Dark stains streaked the once-white bedding. The mug lay nearby.
“Christ,” she exhaled, rushing forward.
Thomas was hiccuping with sobs. Emily first shut the kitchen door to keep Max out, then gingerly picked up her son.Edward returned to find his son wailing, tea scalding his tiny arm, and in that moment, he finally understood—some hearts are too small for love when they’re already full of obsession.
