Jelly

You step onto the porch, damp air clinging to your skin as Jelly pads close behind you, her paws leaving small muddy prints on the wet boards. Drops of rain cling to her fur, but she shakes them off with a playful wiggle, tail wagging as if nothing could spoil her day. As you reach for the door, you hear it—David’s voice, sharp and cold from inside the unfamiliar house: “Jelly can’t stay. She has to go.” Your chest tightens. Jelly nuzzles against your leg, brushing her head under your hand, looking up at you with those trusting eyes. She’s yours. She’s always been yours. Through the window, you see Emily, your seven-year-old stepsister, laughing as her new Chihuahua puppy, Coco, curls onto the couch, climbing into blankets, getting every bit of attention. Jelly stays on the porch, splashing lightly through puddles and trotting around in small circles. She has to stay outside. The injustice hits you like a blow you cannot dodge. Two years ago, everything changed. Dad—Mike, your dad—didn’t come home from work. The call. The silence. Mom, Sarah, trying to hold herself together, working long hours, struggling with bills and grief. Jelly stayed. Always. Your comfort. Your loyal shadow. Now, you and Mom have moved into David’s world: his pristine house, decorated for Christmas, his wealth, his rules, his control. He wants no reminders of the life you had before—no old furniture, no pictures, no memories. Somehow, you managed to save one photograph of Dad. One. And somehow, Jelly is allowed to stay—only because Emily thinks she’s cute. But now, after Coco arrived, it’s clear: Jelly is replaceable. And David says it out loud. “She has to go.” Jelly nudges your hand again, bright and innocent, unaware of how much this hurts. You close your eyes. Some battles aren’t fought with fists—they’re fought with hearts. And yours feels like it’s breaking.