**”He’s the Only One Who Understands”**
“What’s for lunch?” asked Edward, sniffing the air. “Are you cooking something?”
“I am. Biscuits for Duke. Turkey and oatmeal,” Lily replied proudly, pulling a tray from the oven. “He’s going through a rough patch. Shedding season, grooming, moods all over the place. Thought I’d spoil him a bit.”
Lily flitted around the table in a short dressing gown the colour of clotted cream. At her feet, Duke—a tiny, fluffy Pomeranian with the eyes of a devoted cultist—bounced and yapped with glee.
Edward did not share their enthusiasm. He’d rushed home from work for lunch, but it seemed Duke was the only one dining today.
“Brilliant,” he drawled. “So, what’s *our* lunch?”
“Dunno. You could fry some eggs. Or order in. You always say you don’t care what you eat.”
He didn’t argue. Because he *had* said that. Because fighting over food felt petty.
Lily had got Duke long before Edward came along. When she was nineteen, her mother died. Her father, not knowing how else to comfort her, brought home a puppy.
From then on, Duke became the centre of her world. When she moved in with Edward—or rather, insisted he let her into his two-bedroom flat in London—Duke, naturally, travelled first. Quite literally. In an enormous carrier on the passenger seat, close to the heater so he wouldn’t catch a chill.
Edward hadn’t objected. Back then, he found it endearing, the way she talked to the dog, the way she fussed. Three years later, that tender devotion began to resemble something closer to obsession. And unfortunately, it didn’t extend to anyone else.
Edward ate instant noodles in silence, leaning against the sink. Margaret arrived almost on cue, as if she could *feel* the tension in her son’s home. She walked in with a bag containing a tub of soup, a pot of yoghurt, and a neatly foil-wrapped chicken breast.
“So, how’s married life treating you?” she chirped from the doorway.
“Fine, Mum. Lily’s baking treats for Duke.”
“Ah, Duke again. Well, at least it’s not for guests. I made the mistake of sampling his ‘delicacies’ once,” she joked, the words laced with just a drop of venom.
Lily either didn’t notice or chose to ignore the jab. She stepped aside, smiling radiantly.
“We’ve got turkey biscuits today! Fancy a taste? No liver this time, different recipe.”
“No, ta. I roasted a chicken this morning. For *humans*,” Margaret replied, heading straight for the fridge.
Her practised eye skimmed the contents. Yoghurts, a pint of milk, a jar of jam—the same one she’d given them six months ago.
But on a separate shelf sat Tupperware labelled *Duke’s Meals*, adorned with colourful heart-shaped stickers.
“Of course. Duke comes first,” Margaret muttered, shutting the door.
Edward sighed and made for the exit. Early, hungry, with a leaden heart. He still told himself it was all small stuff, that things would settle, that they’d work it out. But something wasn’t working.
A year passed. A lot changed. For one, the family grew. Lily had a boy, Oliver. At first, Granny Margaret hoped this would knock some sense into her daughter-in-law.
Reality quickly sobered her.
She heard the screams from the landing. Long, gasping, desperate. A child’s cries.
“What on earth is going on?!” she shouted, pushing past Lily.
When Margaret reached the bedroom, her heart plummeted. Oliver lay on the bed, face red and wet with tears, his nappy sagging. Worst of all, Duke was there too, licking the baby’s face as if comforting him.
“Have you lost your mind?!” Margaret snapped, grabbing the dog by the scruff.
Duke snarled and squirmed. Lily scurried in, lips pursed in displeasure. Seeing the scene, she snatched Duke back, cradling him to her chest.
“What’s your problem? He was just calming him down! Poor Duke’s had a hard day—vet visit,” she scowled, shielding him. “You scared him!”
“*He’s* the one suffering?! And the baby, what—singing a tune?” Margaret was practically speechless with rage.
Lily rolled her eyes and trudged over to Oliver, eyeing him with weary indifference before turning away.
“’Spose I’ll warm his bottle.”
Margaret picked up the baby. The nappy was soaked. An empty bottle lay on the floor—a spare, perhaps. The teat bore teeth marks. Oliver didn’t *have* teeth yet…
It could only be Duke. Unless Lily had chewed it herself. At this point, Margaret wouldn’t put it past her.
She carried Oliver to the kitchen, where Lily was lazily stirring formula. The baby’s sobs continued behind her, but she didn’t so much as glance back.
“Why’s he on formula?” Margaret demanded.
“You want me breastfeeding? Stuck on those diets? No thanks. Cabbage off limits, cheese off limits, oranges off limits… I love myself too much for that.”
“And not him?” Margaret’s voice was glacial.
Lily turned slowly. Her pupils were pinpricks, fists clenched. Duke nuzzled her leg, but it did nothing to soothe her.
“Listen. You waltz in here with a *list* of grievances. Why don’t you jot down how I should live 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 even a mother?”
Lily hurled the bottle into the sink. Duke whimpered at the crash and hid under the table.
“And who are *you* to tell me what to do?! This is *my* home, *my* child, *my* Duke!”
“Seems Duke’s your top priority! You’re *sick*! A dog matters more than your own baby!”
“At least he doesn’t scream non-stop,” Lily spat before storming off.
The front door creaked open. Edward walked in, took one look at his mother holding Oliver, then at Lily’s twisted expression, and knew he’d walked into a warzone.
“What’s happened?”
“Ask your *wife*,” Margaret said quietly, though it cost her. “Oliver’s drenched, starving, crying. Your dog’s licking his face after licking God knows what. And your wife—she’s making *food* for *Duke*. She’s mad.”
“Mum, come on… she’s just tired. You know how it is. The baby, the housework, no sleep… Postnatal stuff.”
“This isn’t depression,” Margaret cut in. “It’s indifference. It won’t end well, son…”
Between them, they managed to fix a bottle for Oliver. Lily, meanwhile, sat alone in the bedroom, cradling Duke like an infant.
It wasn’t cute anymore.
Six months crawled by. Edward stayed late at work more often—sometimes busy, sometimes just not eager to come home. The flat hummed with a thick, murky silence. No more shouting. Lily didn’t even raise her voice now. She just looked *through* Edward, as though he were a lodger.
That day started like any other. Duke crunched on his premium kibble. Edward scarfed a banana on the go. Lily had actually slept—Oliver had barely cried the night before, earning a half-hearted *”finally.”* An early call dragged Edward out, leaving Lily alone with the baby and the dog.
Normally, he’d watch Oliver while Lily took Duke for his morning walk. But today, she hadn’t managed it. Within half an hour, Duke grew restless, pawing at the door, whining. Time to go.
Oliver was asleep in his playpen. Without a second thought, Lily threw on a jacket, tugged up her hood, and took Duke downstairs. She didn’t bother moving the baby—if he woke, he’d just scream. The longer he slept, the better.
The sky was grey but mild. Duke sniffed about in the grass while Lily scrolled idly on her phone. A post caught her eye—a picture of a happy family, captioned: *”Care and loyalty. That’s what matters.”* She tapped *Like*, thoughtful.
Her priority stood beside her. With a tail and a leather collar.
Meanwhile, Oliver woke. The playpen had been shoved half under the table—space was tight in the tiny kitchen. Struggling to stand, he grabbed the tablecloth. A large mug—a Mother’s Day gift to Lily—slid off. It didn’t break. But the tea inside was still scalding.
Lily heard the screams before she’d even opened the door. She turned the key with no urgency, stepped inside, and froze. Angry red splotches mottled Oliver’s arm. Dark stains bloomedShe clutched Duke tighter, whispered *”Good boy,”* and walked out without looking back, leaving the echoes of Oliver’s cries to fade behind her.
