The only one who understands me.
“What’s for lunch?” asked James, sniffing the air. “Are you cooking something?”
“Yes. Biscuits for Lord. Turkey and oats,” Emma replied proudly, pulling out a baking tray. “He’s going through a tough time right now. Shedding season, grooming, mood swings. Thought I’d spoil him.”
Emma flitted around the table in a short cream-colored dressing gown. Beside her feet, Lord—a tiny, fluffy Pomeranian with the devoted eyes of a zealot—bounced excitedly, yapping and squealing with joy.
James didn’t share their enthusiasm. He’d rushed home from work for lunch, but it seemed the only one eating well today would be Lord.
“Right. Brilliant,” he drawled. “So… what’s for *our* lunch?”
“Dunno. You could fry some eggs. Or we could order something. You always say you don’t care what we eat anyway.”
He didn’t argue. Because he *had* said that. Because fighting over food seemed petty.
Emma had gotten Lord long before she met James. She was nineteen when her mum died. Her father, unsure how to console his daughter, had just brought home a puppy.
From then on, Lord became the center of her world. When she moved in with James—or rather, insisted he let her into his London flat—Lord, of course, came first. Literally. In a massive carrier on the front seat of the cab, close to the heater so he wouldn’t catch a chill.
James hadn’t minded at first. Back then, he found it endearing how she spoke to the dog, how she doted on him. Three years later, that tenderness had begun to feel more like an obsession. And unfortunately, it didn’t extend to anyone else.
James ate a pot noodle in silence, leaning against the sink. Margaret showed up almost on cue. It was like she had a sixth sense for the state of her son’s marriage. She walked in with a bag containing a tub of soup, a packet of cottage cheese, and a foil-wrapped chicken breast.
“So, how are the newlyweds?” she chirped from the doorway.
“Fine, Mum. Emma’s baking treats for Lord.”
“Ah, Lord again. Well, at least it’s not for guests. I still remember the time I accidentally tried one of his ‘delicacies’,” she quipped, her joke laced with quiet venom.
Emma 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! Want to try one? No liver this time—different recipe.”
“No, thanks. I roasted a chicken this morning. For humans,” Margaret replied flatly, heading straight for the fridge.
Her sharp eyes skimmed the contents—yogurts, a carton of milk, a jar of jam. The same one she’d given them six months ago.
Meanwhile, an entire shelf was dedicated to neatly labeled Tupperware for Lord. Stickers with little hearts marked each one.
“Right. Lord’s the priority,” Margaret muttered, slamming the fridge shut.
James sighed and left early, hungry and heavy-hearted. He still tried to convince himself it was temporary, that things would settle. But deep down, he knew they wouldn’t.
A year passed. A lot changed—at least on paper. There was a new addition to the family. Emma had given birth to a son, Oliver. At first, his grandmother hoped this would finally shake her daughter-in-law’s priorities into place.
But reality quickly set Margaret straight.
She heard the screams from the hallway. High-pitched, gasping, desperate. A child’s cries.
“What on earth is going on here?!” she shouted, pushing past Emma.
When Margaret stepped into the bedroom, her stomach dropped. Oliver lay on the bed, red-faced and drenched in tears. His nappy had shifted. And worst of all—Lord was right beside him, licking the baby’s face as if trying to comfort him.
“Have you lost your mind?!” Margaret snarled, grabbing the dog by the scruff.
Lord snapped and writhed. Emma scurried in behind her, lips pursed in offense. When she saw what was happening, she snatched Lord back, cradling him like a precious thing.
“What’s your problem? He was just calming him down! Poor Lord’s had a hard day—he had his shots!” She shielded the dog with her hands. “You *scared* him!”
“*He’s* the one suffering?!” Margaret nearly choked on her fury. “And what’s the baby doing, then? Singing?”
Emma rolled her eyes and trudged over to Oliver. She glanced at him with weary indifference before turning toward the kitchen.
“I’ll warm a bottle.”
Margaret picked up the baby. His nappy was soaked. An empty bottle lay on the floor—maybe a spare. The teat bore teeth marks. Oliver didn’t *have* teeth…
It could only have been Lord. Unless Emma had chewed it herself. By now, nothing would surprise Margaret.
She carried Oliver to the kitchen, where Emma was mixing formula. Slow, lazy movements. The baby’s hiccuping sobs went ignored.
“Why isn’t he breastfed?” Margaret demanded.
“You want me to ruin my diet over it? No cabbage, no cheese, no *tangerines*? Please. I love myself too much.”
“And not him?” Margaret’s voice dripped ice.
Emma turned slowly. Pupils narrowed, fists clenched. Lord nuzzled her leg, but it didn’t soothe her.
“Listen. You’re in *my* house, spouting demands. Want to write me a manual on how to live?”
“I came because my grandson’s screaming bloody murder, and from the smell, you’re cooking *porridge* for Lord! Are you even a mother?”
Emma hurled the bottle into the sink. Startled by the crash, Lord whined and hid under the table.
“Who the hell are *you* to tell me what to do?! This is *my* home, *my* child, and *my* Lord!”
“Lord clearly comes first! You’re *sick*! A dog matters more to you than your own baby?”
“At least he doesn’t scream non-stop,” Emma shot back, storming off.
The front door clicked open. James stepped inside, took in the scene—his mother holding Oliver, Emma’s twisted expression—and froze. He’d walked in at exactly the wrong moment.
“What’s happened?”
“Ask your wife,” Margaret said quietly, though it cost her. “Oliver’s nappy was soaked, crying his lungs out, starving. That dog was licking his face after licking God-knows-what. And your wife? Too busy cooking *Lord’s* dinner. She’s unhinged.”
“Mum, come on… She’s exhausted. You know how it is. The baby, the chores, no sleep… Postnatal depression.”
“It’s *not* depression,” Margaret cut in. “It’s apathy. And it won’t end well.”
They managed to mix a bottle and feed Oliver. Meanwhile, Emma sat alone in the bedroom, cradling Lord like a baby.
It wasn’t cute anymore.
Six months later, James stayed late at work more often—sometimes for actual reasons, sometimes because he didn’t want to go home. A thick, suffocating silence had settled over their marriage. No more fights. Emma didn’t even yell now—just stared right through him like he was a stranger.
That day started like any other. Lord crunched on his premium kibble. James ate a banana on the go. Emma was well-rested—Oliver had barely cried the night before, earning a muttered *about time* from her. An early call dragged James to the office, leaving Emma alone with the baby and the dog.
Normally, he’d watch Oliver while she took Lord for his morning walk. But today, she hadn’t gone yet. Half an hour later, the Pomeranian grew restless, pawing at the door and whining.
Oliver was napping in his playpen. Without a second thought, Emma threw on a jacket, pulled up her hood, and took Lord outside. She didn’t bother moving the baby—if he woke, he’d just start crying again. The longer he slept, the better.
The air was thick with an overcast warmth. Lord sniffed at the grass while Emma scrolled her phone. A post caught her eye—a picture of a smiling family with the caption: *What matters most is love and loyalty.* She hit *like* without thinking.
Her priority was right beside her. With a wagging tail and a leather collar.
Meanwhile, Oliver woke up. The playpen had been wedged halfway under the table—space was tight in their tiny flat. As he struggled to stand, his tiny fingers caught the tablecloth. A heavy mug—a Mother’s Day gift—slid off and crashed down. It didn’t break. But the tea inside was still scalding.
Emma heard the scream before she even opened the door. She turned the key without urgency,She stepped inside, saw the burns on Oliver’s skin, and for the first time in years, felt something crack deep inside her—not guilt, not remorse, just the dull, distant ache of everything that had gone so terribly wrong.
