A Dog Instead of His Son
On Christmas Eve, my six-year-old, Yule, was dying from cancer, and all he wanted was a gift from his dad dressed as Santa.
I called Peter, my husband, begging him to come. His reply? "Can you stop blowing up my phone? I don't have time for this! I'm helping Tracey find Puffy. Do you know how upset she is?"
Oh, Tracey. His first love. And Puffy? Her dog.
I told him Yule might not make it through the night. His response? A straight-up dagger: "Don't act like this isn't your fault, Freya. If Yule hadn't kicked Puffy, none of this would've happened. Tomorrow, make sure he apologizes to Tracey."
Then he hung up.
That night, I sat with Yule, crying as I helped him celebrate his last Christmas.
By morning, Peter's social medias were still full of posts about that freaking dog.
Mine? Yule's obituary.
Ten years of marriage, gone.
Bab Populer
Buka