Today was her birthday. From dawn, calls flooded in, disrupting her morning routine yet warming her heart—proof she hadn’t been forgotten…
Her daughter, Lily, wished her well but reminded her: after work, she’d need to drop by, cook, tutor her grandson, then hurry to her in-laws’ with groceries before rushing home to prepare dinner for her husband, James. Only then, perhaps, she might unwind with a glass of wine in front of the telly—if exhaustion didn’t claim her first. No matter. The priority was keeping everyone content. What more could she ask for? Their satisfaction was her gift.
Two cats—Winston, the elder, and Milo, the spry tabby—watched her bustle. Milo purred, “We’re lucky she cares for us so.”
Winston’s whiskers twitched. “But who cares for *her*? Forty-five isn’t old, yet she’s worn to sixty in those threadbare clothes. Not a soul spares her today.”
Milo blinked. “Odd thoughts! We’re fed, pampered—what else matters?”
“Debts,” Winston murmured. “Some debts must be repaid.”
*****
By nightfall, Winston vanished. Emily trudged to work uneasy, but duty called: Lily’s son needed help with maths, the in-laws required their weekly shop, James awaited his supper. The search would wait.
Dashing home through autumn puddles, an old man in dark glasses halted her by a park bench. “Lass,” he rasped, gripping her hand. “Indulge an old soul?”
Though hurried, Emily sat—something in his voice disarmed her. He cut through her excuses: “Those trainers squeak.”
“You’re blind!” she gasped.
“Deaf I’m not,” he chuckled, fingering her jacket. “Hand-me-down from Lily?”
She flushed. “How—?”
“Birthday yesterday?” he pressed.
Her throat tightened. Lies spilled: “James gave roses, Chanel No. 5. His parents hosted a feast—lobster thermidor, Rémy Martin, dancing till midnight…”
The man smiled cryptically. “I know you, Emily Carter. Come.”
He led her—resolute as a soldier—to a Mayfair boutique, then a Michelin-starred bistro. Waiters ferried her grocery bags home while she dined in a Burberry dress, clutching a Mulberry clutch.
*****
They returned past midnight. Her family gaped in the doorway.
“Hospitals! Morgues!” James spluttered.
“Celebrating,” she said airily, gesturing—but the man had vanished.
“Stunning!” breathed Lily’s husband.
“Wasting our money!” hissed her mother-in-law before storming out.
Emily beamed. “Tea, love?” she told James. “I’ll shower. We danced for hours.”
Bewildered, he obeyed—even adding biscuits to the tray.
*****
Next morning, she found Winston lifeless in the wardrobe, smiling. Burying him beneath an oak, she glimpsed the old man by the bins—but he’d dissolved. In his place, a scraggly kitten mewed.
“Home, little one,” she whispered.
It purred into her neck, as if murmuring: *I know.*
