I know some people roll their eyes at dog parties, but Bruno’s been with me through two breakups, one surgery, and that awful Christmas when Mom got stuck overseas. So yeah—I bought him a hat, a dog-safe cake, even little party favors shaped like bones.

Everything was going perfect. My sister brought her kids, my neighbor made peanut butter cupcakes, and Bruno looked ridiculously proud wearing his little “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” cone hat.

Then my brother-in-law walked in. He laughed. Loudly. Said, “Didn’t know we were doing therapy sessions disguised as birthdays.” I brushed it off. Bruno didn’t notice. But then he leaned in and said something to my niece—something I only caught because I was refilling the water bowl behind them.

She looked up at him with wide eyes. Then she looked at Bruno… and started crying.

I froze, still crouched by the water bowl. My first instinct was to laugh it off, to think maybe she was just tired or overwhelmed. But her sobs were the kind that started from the belly and shook her tiny shoulders. Not the kind that go away with a juice box and a sticker.

I rushed over and crouched next to her. “Hey, hey… what’s wrong, sweetie?”

She couldn’t even get the words out at first. Just pointed at Bruno and whispered, “Is he going to die soon?”

My heart stopped. I turned to her dad—my brother-in-law, Matt—with a stare sharp enough to cut through drywall. “What did you say to her?”