The Summer That Changed Everything
“I’m leaving to be with Edward!” I declared, slamming my suitcase shut. Mum stood in the doorway, her face flushed crimson with fury.
“Shameless hussy! Don’t you dare come crawling back when you’re with child!” she shrieked, kicking the suitcase as though it were to blame.
Strange, I thought—hadn’t she always longed for grandchildren?
I was three-and-twenty, aching for a life of my own. Pity gnawed at me, but her iron grip on my soul stifled me more. I dreamed of freedom, of a world without her endless scolding. And so I became the betrayer—the daughter who abandoned her mother for a husband.
Mum was left alone. Her restless energy, once spent on ordering me about, now had no outlet. She tried fussing over the neighbours, but they, like me, shut their doors. She took ill—her heart one day, her blood pressure the next. Her calls were laced with whispers of loneliness, her phone slammed down after every conversation. The scent of valerian hung in the hall. I yielded to her guilt, and my newfound happiness with Edward grew shadowed by her despair.
I decided she needed a new creature to worry over—someone to fray her nerves as I once had.
“Tomorrow, we’re off to the market to fetch Mum a kitten,” I announced over supper.
Edward didn’t argue, too busy devouring my beef stew. He’d lived alone since boyhood, subsisting on tinned meals until his stomach revolted by twenty. When I arrived with proper cooking, he’d have agreed to anything so long as I kept feeding him.
—
At dawn, we set off for the market in the next town. The pavilion buzzed with voices and the mingled stench of manure and fur. My head spun—I blamed the latest fad diet, which replaced meals with yoghurt. But soon, I knew better. It was the sorrow radiating from the cages—whimpers, cries, pleading eyes begging for a home.
I knew nothing of cats. I’d imagined something fluffy, long-haired, perhaps spotted or sleek as a sphinx. Foolish, really. The dizziness worsened. I longed to fling the cages open, shouting, “Run! I’ll hold them off!” Instead, I trudged on, haunted by those doomed stares.
“Let’s go,” I gasped to Edward.
“Without a cat?” He frowned.
“Just—take that one,” I said, pointing at the first creature I saw.
A scruffy, striped face glared back—”What d’you want?” Perfect for Mum. They’d bicker, and her energy would find its mark without ruining her health.
“How much?” I asked the vendor.
“Two hundred quid.”
“You’re joking!” I choked.
“That’s a proper Maine Coon!” he boasted.
I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded costly. Edward and I, fresh out of university, scraped by on wages covering rent, bills, and the odd pub meal. Two hundred quid was the winter coat we’d been saving for. What would I wear—the cat?
“We’ll take it,” I blurted, startling even myself.
“Steep price,” muttered Edward.
“Love isn’t something you skimp on!” I snapped.
“Love’s free,” he shot back. “Stray kittens need it just as much—”
“This one’s pedigreed!” the vendor cut in.
“Aye, pedigreed!” I parroted.
“And who’ll care? The mice in your mum’s garden?”
I seethed. Edward was right, and that grated. I spun on my heel and marched off—just as a scrawny grey kitten bolted from under a stall. Big, terrified eyes, matted fur. I scooped it up.
“Whose is this?”
“Nobody’s. Mangy stray. Toss it out,” the vendor shrugged.
Edward studied the creature.
“Honestly? This is the sort I pictured for your mum.”
“Why?”
“Looks like it’s survived a war. Tough as boots.”
We exchanged a glance, then trudged to the car in silence. The kitten clung to me, licking its paws like a proper little scarecrow.
“To your mum’s?” Edward asked.
“No—it needs tidying first. A bath, a brush. It’s hardly gift-worthy.”
—
Home revealed the kitten was a she—a right little terror. In a day, she’d shredded the hallway wallpaper, nested in Edward’s jumper, ruined my tights, and performed acrobatics on her hind legs. The vet gave her shots, we bathed her, fitted a flea collar.
Within a week, she’d bloomed into a fluffy bandit. She ate like a steam engine, played with yarn, chewed my hair, and slept belly-up, trusting as a babe. Light as a feather, she curled in my palm. We named her Fluff—for obvious reasons.
Time came to deliver her to Mum. I’d warned of the surprise. But we stalled—my head throbbed (curse that wretched yoghurt!). Fluff tore about, oblivious to her fate.
At last, we prepared to leave.
“Fetch her,” Edward grumbled. He wanted no part in this “betrayal.”
The July heat clung as we loaded into the sweltering car. Fluff panted, fixing us with wide eyes before flopping onto her back, belly exposed.
“Too warm in that fur coat, eh, Fluff?” I scratched her ear.
“Tell your mum she’s a rare breed—Yorkshire Terrier of cats,” Edward joked weakly.
But laughter died. We shared a look, then turned back without a word.
“Mum’ll get another…”
Fluff peered from under my arm, unaware she’d just won herself a home.
—
Nine years on, Fluff’s family—passport, birthday (well, adoption day) and all. Our rumbling stress-reliever, teacher of responsibility. Because of her, we dared have a child, knowing we could nurture. She’s our doctor, our felicitous fluff.
Strays are the truest.
—
This happened in a tucked-away Yorkshire town where I sought freedom but found love—for my husband, for life, and for a scruffy grey rascal.
