**Diary Entry – A Day of True Loss and a Mother-in-Law’s Wrath**
It’s been over two weeks since *that* day. For most, it would’ve been a reason to dress up, accept congratulations, host guests… For me, it became a day of real loss. Death doesn’t choose its moment. And it certainly doesn’t check the calendar for someone else’s celebrations.
That day, Rocky was dying. Our dog. A member of the family. The one who’d lived with us for eight years, sharing our joys and sorrows. He’d been seriously ill. A week prior, the vet delivered the crushing diagnosis—terminal cancer. We knew the end was near. But that didn’t lessen the pain.
And then came *the* day. My mother-in-law’s birthday.
I knew right away I wouldn’t go. I just couldn’t. I couldn’t abandon a dying creature who looked at me with devoted eyes, silently begging me to stay.
My husband—James—went alone. He insisted:
*“I’ll congratulate Mum, tell her you’re unwell. Stay with Rocky. He shouldn’t pass alone.”*
I called my mother-in-law. Offered my congratulations. Just words. No cake, no festive smile. My voice shook—I couldn’t fake cheer. But I was polite. At least, I tried to be.
That evening, Rocky died. While James sat at the birthday table, listening to toasts, watching his mother open gifts, I held his paw. Stroked his head. Whispered,
*“Thank you. For everything.”*
I didn’t call James. Didn’t want to ruin the evening. He knew the moment he stepped through the door. We sat holding each other for hours. Crying. Silent. Grieving.
Two days later, the phone rang.
*“Well?”* My mother-in-law’s sharp voice. *“I’m still waiting for your conscience to kick in! No call, no apology for missing my day. You ruined my celebration!”*
*“Rocky died. We weren’t in the mood for parties…”* I answered quietly.
*“Honestly, a dog! Not even a pedigree! You chose some mongrel over my special day! Disrespectful! Rude! You’re turning my son against me!”*
I just hung up. There was nothing left to say.
My relationship with James’s mother was never easy. She’s the type who believes she’s always right. If she raised such a *“perfect”* son, she must have the right to dictate everyone else’s life.
For six years, I bit my tongue. Endured it. Every year, her birthday became a day of dread. First, James and I bought groceries. Then I’d spend hours cooking, like a hired hand, preparing every dish she *“requested.”* Baking the cake. Cleaning. Decorating. All under her critical eye:
*“You’ve sliced this wrong.”*
*“The roast’s too dry.”*
*“Why isn’t the salad in the crystal bowl?”*
And then—the party, forcing smiles while seething inside. Followed by dishes, tidying, and still no *“thank you.”*
Three years ago, James’s brother married. His wife is capable, clever. Now she handles the cooking—but the rest still falls on me. The cleaning. The forced smiles. The endless performance.
This year, I disobeyed. Chose to stay not with her, but with the one who loved me quietly, sincerely, wholly. With the one who needed me in his final hours. I don’t regret it.
Now my mother-in-law stages scenes. Sends cutting messages. Calls me names. Tells James I’m *“pulling him away from his family.”* And me? I don’t want to fight. But I won’t lie, endure, or bow to contempt anymore. I didn’t ask for sympathy—just silence. Respect. Understanding. Or failing that—just *leave me alone.*
Tell me, was I truly selfish to stay with a dying dog? Or are some things more important than hollow gatherings and other people’s demands?
