My parents skipped my wedding because their dog was sick, and now I sit at my little kitchen table in our starter house in Ohio, staring at my phone while an invitation to Thanksgiving glows on the screen. Next to it, a glass of iced tea sweats onto a coaster printed with a faded American flag, and the fridge hums behind me, a flag magnet pinning up a picture of my parents’ Labradoodle, Muffin, in a ridiculous sweater.
I screenshot Muffin’s latest Instagram post—a close-up of her in a tiny party hat surrounded by dog-safe cupcakes—and attach it to my reply. My thumbs hover for a second before I type the same sentence they once gave me.
“Sorry, we can’t make it. Tom hasn’t been feeling well. I need to stay home and take care of him.”
Before I hit send, I think about the twelve missed calls from my mom on the morning of my wedding and the two empty chairs at the front of the chapel. If Muffin could be their child, then my husband was going to be mine.
My parents got Muffin three years before my wedding, and from day one, that dog became the center of their universe. They bought her a custom velvet dog bed that cost more than my first used Honda. They hired a professional photographer to take weekly pictures for her Instagram account. They canceled plans with me if Muffin seemed tired, or moody, or “just a little off.”
When I called to say I’d been promoted and wanted to take them to dinner downtown to celebrate, Mom said, “Oh honey, we’d love to, but Muffin had an upset stomach this morning. We should stay close in case she needs us.”
They missed that dinner.
When I walked across the stage to get my college diploma, the seats I’d saved for them stayed empty. Later, Mom texted a photo of Muffin lying sadly on her velvet bed and wrote, “She was vomiting all night. We couldn’t leave her. We’re so proud of you though!”
They missed my graduation.
My birthday cookout? They left halfway through because Muffin looked “a little sad” on the pet camera. They waved at me with apologetic smiles, juggling a to-go container of ribs while my friends watched them hustle out the door.
By then, the pattern was obvious, but I kept telling myself it would be different when something truly important happened. Something like my wedding.
I’d been with Tom for five years when he proposed on a quiet Sunday evening, in our living room, Sinatra playing faintly from a Bluetooth speaker. I called my parents that night, my hands still shaking, and Mom screamed into the phone.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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