I was nineteen when my mom died. One minute she was laughing at a TV show, and the next, too weak to lift a spoon. Cancer doesn’t wait—and neither did my father.
Mom was the heart of our home, and her little French Bulldog, Peanut, never left her side. As she faded, Peanut stayed close, trying to hold on. I tried too, but unlike the dog, I had to function—pretend my dad wasn’t already moving on.
He never truly loved her. Not once did I see him show care, not even at the end. When the doctors said it was almost over, he just nodded—like someone mentioned the washing machine broke.
On the day of the funeral, I didn’t want to go. My father, cold and emotionless, insisted. When I asked if Peanut could come, he brushed it off: “She’s just a dog.” I knew better—she was Mom’s dog.
After the service, which felt more like a formality than a goodbye, I argued with my dad. He said, “It’s done,” like he was closing a file. I went to bed with Peanut curled up beside me—the only comfort left.
The next day, she was gone.
My dad had taken her to a shelter without telling me. “Not my problem anymore,” he muttered. I was numb. Then I ran—three shelters later, I found her shaking in a cage. But I was too late. Someone had already adopted her.
Weeks passed. Then came a call from Mom’s lawyer. At the office, my dad was there too, clearly expecting an inheritance.
Instead, the lawyer read her will: everything went to Peanut. The house, the money, everything. Since a dog can’t legally own property, control of it all went to the dog’s guardian—me.
My dad exploded, furious and helpless. He threatened to get Peanut back, only to find she’d already been adopted—by Ashley, Mom’s best friend. Without knowing, he had handed Mom’s beloved companion to someone who truly cared.
I moved in with Ashley. With her, and Peanut, I felt safe—finally home.
As for my father? He was left with nothing.
Just like he deserved.
And the last thing I ever said to him?
“Mom always knew you’d end up alone.”
