With that, he turned and ran off, crying—but proud, chin held high.
Every word sliced through me like a blade.
No mother can hear such hatred from her own child and remain whole.
A buzzing filled my ears. My knees nearly gave out.
Still, I swallowed the grief and pain, and quietly buried Molly beneath the old tree he loved to nap under.
I placed his favorite rubber bone beside him, along with the chewed-up ball he always carried in his mouth.
It was as though he’d never existed.
Just like me.
Seven years of selfless care, devotion, and sacrifice—and in the end, I left no trace in this house.
Not in his heart.
Not in either of theirs.
As I finished covering the grave, a sharp breeze brushed past me, carrying with it a familiar scent—fresh mint.
I turned around.
Arthur stood there, arms crossed, face blank.
So alike, he and our son. The same cold detachment. The same pride. The same arrogance.
“You made the first mistake,” he said flatly, eyes flicking to my tear-streaked face. “But Abraham’s reaction was too much. Still, it doesn’t make sense for a dog to pay for a human’s mistake.”
His voice held no warmth. No remorse.
Just judgment.
Then he frowned and walked away.