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.
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