Floating silently in the pool was a soaked, lifeless Yorkshire terrier.
His once-fluffy fur drifted gently with the ripples, as though trying to wag one last time.
Greeting me. Saying goodbye.
I stood frozen, unable to comprehend what I was seeing.
Then came the voice, bright and cruel, from behind me.
“Who told you to bully Aunt Loren? This is your punishment!”
Abraham laughed, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
My chest constricted.
Molly.
The stray I rescued six years ago.
It took endless coaxing before Arthur begrudgingly agreed to keep him.
Over the years, Molly became family to me—my silent companion, my shadow, my comforter. In every way that mattered, he was my second child.
And now, he was gone. Drowned.
I stepped forward with trembling hands, reaching toward his tiny, still body. But the moment my fingers touched the cold water, I flinched and drew back.
Tears blurred my vision.
And then—for the first time—I raised my hand and struck my son.
The sound of the slap cracked through the still air.
Abraham clutched his cheek, stunned. His expression twisted, not in remorse, but in fury.
“I don’t want you to be my mother! Dad doesn’t like you either! So why are you still in our house?!”