Abandoned
Emily sat in her cosy flat in the heart of London when it struck her—she had been left behind. For three years, she had shared her life with a man who came and went like a shadow. Sometimes he stayed the night, helping with odd jobs, and she called him her partner. For six months, he even lived with her, and in secret, she dreamed he might become her husband. They were both in their forties—an age when stability mattered.
Yet something about him unsettled her. He had a degree in economics but barely worked in the field. One day he drove a cab, the next he hauled crates, and sometimes he did nothing at all, loafing at his parents’ cottage in the Cotswolds. Oddly, his parents still supported him—a grown man in his forties—and he accepted it without embarrassment.
Still, he wasn’t entirely lacking. He was clever, well-read, and far from selfish. They could talk for hours, and Emily hoped their relationship would blossom into something more. She needed to think of her future, of family. Deep down, she saw him as her anchor.
Her life wasn’t unhappy. Her great-grandmother had left her a tidy one-bedroom flat—bright, neat, with a view of the Thames. It was warm with books, the soft glow of a reading lamp, and a fluffy cat named Winston. The cat was her shadow—reserved, devoted, yet like all cats, masking his affection behind independence.
Money wasn’t an issue. She worked as an accountant, untroubled by intrusions or annoyances. But reason whispered, *You’re in your forties. It’s time to settle down.* And this man, flawed as he was, had become part of her life. Three years of uncertainty, and she’d grown attached.
Together felt calmer than alone. Or had she just convinced herself? The truth slipped away like a mirage.
He had keys to her flat. He came and went as he pleased—no promises, no ties. But Emily believed their bond could deepen. Maybe he’d change? Life was unpredictable.
Everything crumbled when she was hospitalised. A minor procedure, just five days. Her neighbour Lucy fed Winston. But her partner never called, never visited. It stung, but she brushed it off: *Men forget sometimes. It happens.*
Another month passed. Silence. Then, a call:
“Em, I’ve met someone else. Let’s meet—I’ll return your keys.”
She froze, slow to grasp it. Preparing to see him, she dreaded one thing: what if he brought her? A mocking glance or feigned indifference would be unbearable.
But he came alone. Silently handed back the keys and muttered,
“All the best.”
Emily walked into a nearby café. Over coffee, grief washed over her. She realised—she’d been abandoned. The pain was so sharp her legs buckled. She went to her friend Charlotte’s, collapsing onto the sofa, unable to speak. Charlotte stayed quiet, offering no comfort, only quoting Eliot: *”Abandoned—an invented word.”*
Home again, pale and shattered. Three years of her life—emptiness. Abandoned. Word or feeling, what did it matter? The hurt was real.
At the door, Winston waited. He brushed against her legs, purring. Absently, she filled his bowl, but for once, he ignored it. Strange.
Weakness overwhelmed her. Her legs gave way, her mind fogged. She lay down, eyes closed, until she felt a weight on her chest. She opened her eyes—Winston stared back. His gaze was deep, almost human. A glint of moisture by his right eye, like a tear.
Emily sat up, kissed his forehead. And suddenly—relief. The pain faded. *He* was gone? So be it. Fate had removed him, sparing her greater loss. Winston, his soft fur and knowing eyes, seemed to agree.
Cats are mysteries. They seem simple but understand more than we know. Winston felt her sorrow and shared it. Some cats are almost human. We just don’t always see it.
