Losing my mom at 19 was the worst pain I had ever known. Cancer had taken her quickly, mercilessly, and in its wake, it left a house that suddenly felt hollow.

But I wasn’t the only one grieving. Peanut, my mom’s little Frenchie, had been her shadow. That dog never left her side, curling up beside her even in her final days, licking her hands as if she could heal her.

Dad never cared about Peanut. He barely cared about me. He only tolerated the dog because Mom did. And when she was gone, I should have known things would change.

But I didn’t expect **this.**

The funeral had barely ended when I came home and felt it immediately—something was wrong. **Too quiet.**

I searched the house. No clicking of tiny paws on the floor, no snuffling from Peanut’s bed.

I turned to my father, who was already slumped on the couch with a beer in hand.

**”Where’s Peanut?”** My voice was tight, dread curling in my stomach.

He didn’t even look up. **”Got rid of her.”**

I felt like I’d been punched. **”What do you mean, ‘got rid of her’? Where is she?!”**

He shrugged, taking a sip. **”Some shelter. Better off there than in my house.”**

My knees almost gave out. **He threw her away like trash.**

I wanted to scream, to punch him, to make him feel the loss I felt. But he was already dead inside. There was nothing to break.