Grief was supposed to bring us closer — but in my case, it tore us apart. My mother had barely been laid to rest when my father began making changes I never saw coming. But what he didn’t know was that Mom had one final surprise left behind.
I was 19 when she died. It happened fast — too fast. One moment she was laughing at a silly TV show, and the next, she couldn’t lift a spoon. Cancer doesn’t wait for goodbyes. And neither did my father.
Mom was the warmth in our home. Wherever she went, Pina followed. That little French Bulldog was her shadow in fur. As Mom’s illness took over, Pina rarely left her side, curled up next to her like she was trying to keep her anchored to the world just by being close.
I tried to do the same — but unlike Pina, I had to eat, sleep, and pretend like Dad wasn’t already erasing her from our lives before she was even gone.
He never really loved her — not the way she deserved. I never saw him hold her hand, never saw flowers, never saw the kind of look a husband should give his wife. In her final days, he barely even tried to fake it.
When the doctors told us it was only a matter of time, he just nodded. No tears. No breakdown. Just a nod — like someone had informed him the dishwasher needed fixing.
“I don’t want to go,” I whispered, gripping the hem of the borrowed black dress that smelled like lavender and someone else’s life.
“You have to,” he muttered, adjusting his tie in the hallway mirror. His voice was flat — like we were heading to a meeting, not my mother’s funeral.
I swallowed hard. “Pina should come.”
He sighed, annoyed. “She’s a dog. Not a person.”
“She was Mom’s dog.”
“And Mom’s gone.”
The words knocked the breath out of me. Pina pressed against my leg, warm and trembling. I knelt to scratch her ears. “I’ll be back soon, okay?”
She licked my fingers.
The funeral was a blur of stiff hugs and murmured condolences. Strangers told me I was “so strong.” I didn’t feel strong — I felt empty. Dad barely spoke, checking boxes on a list no one asked for. When we got home, he yanked off his tie and tossed it on the table.
“It’s done,” he said.
“What’s done?” I snapped. “Mom just died, and you’re acting like—”
“Like what?” He turned, eyes cold. “Like I need to move on? Because I do. And so do you.”
Pina whimpered at my feet. I picked her up, burying my face in her fur. “I’m going to bed.”
“Take that thing with you,” he muttered, cracking open a beer.
I barely slept. Pina curled next to me, breathing softly. For the first time since Mom died, I felt something close to safe.
Until the next day.
I came home to silence. No clicking paws. No happy snorts. Just the sound of another bottle opening in the kitchen.
Something was wrong.
“Pina?” I called, heart pounding. “Pina!”
Nothing.
I turned to him. He sat in his chair, feet up, eyes on the TV. Like nothing had changed.
“Where’s Pina?” My voice trembled.
He didn’t even look at me. “Got rid of her.”
The world tilted. My skin went cold. “What?”
“She’s gone,” he said, sipping his beer. “Not my problem anymore.”
I couldn’t breathe. His words were gibberish — like another language. “What do you mean gone? Where is she?!”
He finally looked at me, eyes dull. “Shelter.” He shrugged, like talking about a broken chair. “Better off there than in my house.”
My body moved faster than my mind. I ran.
Out the door. Down the street. Into my car.
The road was a blur. Pina had never spent a night without Mom or me. She must’ve been terrified.
Hours passed. Three shelters, until I finally found her.
She was curled in the corner of a metal cage, shaking. Her big dark eyes met mine, and she whimpered — soft and desperate. She pressed herself to the bars, tail wagging weakly.
“Pina,” I breathed.
The woman at the front desk glanced over with a sad smile. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to take her home,” I said, my voice cracking. “She’s my dog.”
Her face changed. “I’m sorry, your father signed surrender papers.”
“So what?” I said. “He had no right—”
She sighed. “Legally, she’s no longer yours.” Her voice softened. “A new owner is picking her up today.”
I wanted to fight. Scream. Do something.
But I was too late.
Pina was already gone.
The next two weeks passed in foggy silence. Dad barely spoke to me. Not that I cared. Mom’s house — our house — felt colder than ever. No Pina. No warmth. Just echoes of what I’d lost.
Then the phone rang.
“You need to come in,” said Mom’s lawyer. His tone was calm, but my stomach knotted.
When I arrived, Dad was already there, arms crossed, impatiently tapping his foot. Not grieving — waiting. Probably for money.
The lawyer cleared his throat and opened a folder. “Your mother’s will was… very specific.”
Dad perked up, eyes gleaming.
I held my breath.
“Everything she owned before marriage remained solely hers,” the lawyer continued. “And since everything in the marriage was purchased with her money…” He paused, glancing at Dad. “It all goes to the sole heir.”
Dad leaned forward, ready for his windfall.
The lawyer turned to me.
“To Pina.”
Silence.
Dad laughed. “What?”
The lawyer didn’t blink. “Your mother left everything to Pina — her home, her savings, all her assets. They now legally belong to the dog.”
The air in the room shifted. Dad froze. I could hear his breath catch.
“This is insane!” he snapped. “A dog can’t own property!”
“Correct,” the lawyer said. “Which is why her legal guardian has full control.” He shut the folder and met my eyes.
The realization hit like thunder.
I was Pina’s guardian.
Which meant… it was all mine.
Dad’s face twisted in fury.
And for the first time in months, I smiled.
He went pale. Then red. His fists clenched. I’d never seen him emotional — until now.
“This is a joke. A sick joke!” he spat.
The lawyer didn’t flinch. He just slid the papers across the desk. “It’s legally binding. Your wife was very clear. You get nothing.”
I watched as panic bloomed in my father’s face. His jaw clenched, breath quickened, eyes darting. He gripped the chair like he could hold onto something slipping away.
Then something clicked in his mind. He stood abruptly, chair screeching.
“Then I’ll take the dog.”
I laughed. “Good luck with that.”
He stormed out. I let him go.
By the time he reached the shelter, Pina was already gone.
Ashley — Mom’s best friend — had volunteered there for years. As soon as she saw Pina, she didn’t hesitate. Took her home.
My father had unknowingly handed Mom’s most loyal companion to someone who actually cared.
When he arrived, demanding his “property,” there was nothing left to take.
And by then, I was gone too.
Ashley took me in like her own. In her home, I wasn’t just surviving — I was safe. I was loved. I had a home and the inheritance, yes — but more than that, I had Pina. Every night she curled up next to me, warm and peaceful, far from the man who never wanted either of us.
My father?
He had nothing.
Exactly what he deserved.
And the last thing I ever said to him?
“Mom always knew you’d end up alone.”
