“You don’t respect me! You skipped my birthday over a dog!” snapped my mother-in-law.
Dorothy Whitmore—bless her heart—has been in a proper strop for a week now, absolutely wounded to her core because I, Emily, didn’t show up to her birthday bash. Never mind that my loyal labrador, Winston, was on his last legs that day. No, apparently, I was meant to drop everything, slap on a cheery grin, and rush to her side, leaving my heartache at the door. But I couldn’t. My heart was already in pieces, and her little outburst? That was the final straw.
My husband, James, and I live in a quiet little town just outside Bristol, well away from Dorothy’s prying eyes—which, honestly, is the only reason our marriage survives. Dorothy is the sort of woman who sticks her nose into everything, firmly believes she’s never wrong, and acts like I should be eternally grateful to the universe for blessing me with her *flawless* son. James is lovely, truly—independent, makes his own choices without running to Mummy first, and that drives Dorothy spare. Once she realised she couldn’t puppet him anymore, she started acting like our marriage existed purely by her grace. Every word from her drips with condescension, and frankly, I’ve had enough.
Her birthdays? A whole other nightmare. Dorothy turns them into a full-blown royal gala where everyone must bow and scrape. She herds in every relative within a fifty-mile radius, presides over the table like the Queen at a banquet, and basks in the attention. The day itself is bad enough, but the *prep* starts weeks in advance. She drags James through every supermarket in the county, scours the internet for “exotic” recipes, and expects me to play sous-chef: buying ingredients, chopping salads, arranging the table. On the day, I’m required to show up at dawn, clean her house, cook, serve, and entertain—all while enduring her nitpicking: *“The slices are too thick, the plates are crooked.”* No wonder I dread the whole affair.
The last two years, I’ve dodged kitchen duty, thank heavens. James has a younger brother whose wife is an actual chef, so after their wedding, culinary responsibilities shifted to her. But I still had to show up, play hostess, and endure the circus. This time? I didn’t go at all. Winston had taken a turn—aggressive cancer, the vet said, no hope left. The night before Dorothy’s big day, he worsened. I stayed up with him, stroking his fur, trying to coax him to eat. It broke me. We’d adopted him from a shelter as a pup; he was family. And now he was slipping away, and I was powerless. The grief was unbearable.
Anyone who’s lost a pet knows that hollow, world-stopping pain. James was upset too, but not like me. We agreed he’d go alone to his mother’s, and I called Dorothy to apologise, explaining the situation. I stayed home, holding Winston’s paw until the end. When James returned, I told him. He hugged me, though I could tell he didn’t *quite* grasp the depth of it.
The next morning, Dorothy called. Maybe, just *maybe*, I thought she’d ask how I was. Offer condolences. Instead? *“I expected an apology! Skipping my birthday, ignoring me—what sort of disrespect is this?”* Fighting tears, I reminded her: *“Baron was dying—he’s gone now.”* Her reply gutted me: *“So? Dogs die all the time, especially mutts like yours! You couldn’t even show up? That tells me everything!”* She slammed the phone down, and I crumpled, stunned by her cruelty.
Dorothy didn’t stop there. Oh no. She railed to James, painting me as the villain. Thankfully, he shut her down. But she’s spent the week bombarding me with messages—how I “chose a *dog* over her special day.” She’s even rowed with James, demanding he “put me in my place.” Her words cut deep. How can someone be so heartless? Winston wasn’t just a pet; he was family. Her birthday? Just another vanity parade.
I’m done. If Dorothy can’t muster a shred of empathy, we’ve nothing left to say. I’m sick of her meddling, her ego, her delusion that the world revolves around her. My heart still aches for Winston, but I won’t let her trample my grief. James stands by me, and that’s enough. I choose my family—my *real* one—not a woman who treats pain like an inconvenience.
