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.

Christmas Eve.

The hospital called, and the doctor's voice was sharp, panicked. "Mrs. Lane, Yule's condition has worsened. He's in critical care! We can't reach Mr. Lane—you need to come now!"

I didn't grab a thing, just ran out the door. Normally, I stayed with Yule, but tonight was Peter's turn. He promised.

So, where the hell was he?

On the drive over, I kept calling Peter. No answer. My hands shook as I typed out a message: [Peter! You promised tonight! Yule is in critical condition. Where are you?!]

When I got to the hospital, I bolted for the emergency room. A doctor stopped me, his face grim. "Mrs. Lane... please prepare yourself."

"No," I whispered, shaking my head. My voice cracked. "No! He was fine yesterday!"

The doctor grabbed my shoulders to steady me. "Mrs. Lane, Yule's condition was fragile. Without someone in the room to catch the subtle signs, we—" He hesitated, his voice softening. "We were too late. I'm so sorry."

I collapsed. My phone slipped from my hand as this suffocating pain ripped through me. All I could do was scream one word: "Peter!"

I don't know how long I stayed there, broken, before the operating room light blinked off. The surgeon stepped out, looking at me with tired eyes. "You should spend Christmas Eve with him."

Christmas Eve...

How did it come to this?

In the palliative care room, Yule stirred weakly. His voice was soft, hopeful. "Mommy, Daddy promised he'd dress up as Santa and bring me a gift tonight... right?"

I held his hand tightly, swallowing my grief. "Yeah, sweetheart. Santa's coming. I promise." My voice trembled.

Desperate, I opened my phone. Still no word from Peter. My thumb hovered, shaking, before I opened social media.

Tracey's newest post slapped me in the face:

[Puffy is missing. I can't breathe... Puffy, where are you?]

The photo attached was of some holiday-lit street. And in the corner? Peter. My husband. He wasn't here. He was out looking for Tracey's stupid dog.

I snapped. Left a comment before I could stop myself: [If Yule dies, I'll never forgive the two of you.]

Yule's small hand tugged mine. "Mommy, why are you crying?"

I looked up, trembling. My face was streaked with tears. Was it guilt? Heartbreak? Hate for Peter? Maybe all of it.

But none of that mattered now. I had to pull it together. Yule needed me.

I shoved my phone aside, wiped my face, and somehow forced a smile. "I'm just happy, baby. It's Christmas Eve, and you're here with me."

Not even a minute later, my phone buzzed. Peter.

For Yule's sake, I answered.

His voice exploded through the line. "Freya Wayne! Watch your mouth!"