A Dog Instead of His Son

I took a deep breath, trying to suppress the rage building inside me. Turning away, I lowered my voice and said into the phone, "Peter, Yule is dying."

Silence. Then a cold, bitter laugh. "What are you even playing at now? First, you throw a tantrum on Tracey's social media, and now you're dragging Yule into it for attention?"

It felt like the air had been sucked out of my lungs. Grief and fury churned in my chest, but with Yule lying just feet away, I forced myself to stay calm. My voice cracked. "Peter, I'm begging you..."

Tears streamed down my face as I stepped out into the hallway, leaving the nurse to watch over Yule. My composure snapped. "Get to the hospital. Now. You promised Yule you'd dress as Santa!"

"I don't have time for this!" Peter barked. "I'm helping Tracey find Puffy. Do you know how upset she is?"

"Christmas is tomorrow," he added. "And let's be honest, Freya, you're only this worked up because you're jealous of Tracey."

I closed my eyes, letting the silent tears fall.

Ten years of marriage, and it all clicked. To Peter, Yule and I didn't even matter as much as a dog.

I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to turn cold and steady. "Peter, tonight was your night to stay with Yule. If you hadn't left, maybe he wouldn't—"

"Enough!" Peter cut me off, annoyed. "I checked on Yule earlier, and he was fine! And Tracey only stopped by out of kindness. Yule was the one who kicked and hit Puffy—"

"What?!" I snapped. "Yule is terrified of dogs! And you let Tracey bring one near him? Do you even have a conscience?!"

Silence.

I could almost hear the gears turning in Peter's head as he remembered: Yule was allergic to dog fur.

That might've been why his condition had spiraled so quickly.

Then I heard her. Tracey's voice drifted through the phone, all sugar-coated innocence. "Peter, maybe Freya really does need you. I'll keep looking for Puffy myself. He was the first gift you ever gave me, you know? Even if we're not together, Puffy reminds me of you."

She paused, then added sweetly, "You already work so hard running the company. I don't want you exhausting yourself. If Freya can't give you a little space, maybe you should go back."

Peter reassured her, "Don't worry. She's always used Yule to manipulate me."

I laughed. A bitter, hollow laugh that scraped my throat.

There wouldn't be any more "manipulation" after tonight.

Without waiting for Peter to respond, I shouted into the phone, "Peter Lane! You killed Yule. You'll regret it for the rest of your life!"

I hung up and stormed back toward the hospital room, my chest tightening like a vice.

Yule couldn't spend his last Christmas Eve feeling abandoned.

I tore through every office on the floor until I found a doctor about Peter's height. Desperation clawed at me as I begged him to pretend to be Peter.

An hour later, the doctor walked into Yule's room, decked out in a Santa suit from a nearby shop. He held Yule's favorite toy, a little model car.

Yule's eyes lit up, shining with tears. "I knew Daddy wouldn't leave me..."

I bit back a sob, my hand clamped over my mouth, and pulled Yule into my arms.

A nurse snapped a picture. It was the last photo we ever took with him. Yule passed away that snowy Christmas Eve.

Afterward, I called Shaun—my only family left—and handled Yule's cremation on my own.

He was just six. I used to love how much he looked like Peter, how tall he was for his age. Now all that was left of him was a tiny urn.

Clutching it tight, I whispered, "You always wanted to see the ocean, Yule. Mommy's going to take you there and let you rest, okay?"

This world had been too cruel to him. The sea would be kinder.

When I stepped out of the funeral home, the sun was rising. Just thirty minutes earlier, Peter was still posting on social media about that dog.

Meanwhile, I posted Yule's obituary, saying goodbye to the world for him.

Before I blocked Peter for good, I sent one last message: [Let's get a divorce.]