She got jealous of me… over a cat
I never imagined I’d wind up in such a ridiculous, if not downright silly, situation. My mum and I call each other every day—sometimes even twice, once in the morning and once at night. But for two days straight, she wouldn’t pick up. Either she’d decline the call or just leave it ringing. I started to worry. I was about to drive to her place—maybe something was wrong with her phone? Alex had gifted her a new smartphone for Mother’s Day, but let’s just say tech isn’t exactly her forte.
Then—a miracle! She finally answered, but her voice was frostier than a receptionist at the DMV:
“Yes, I’m listening.”
“Mum, where have you been? I’ve been going spare! Two days without hearing from you!”
“I’ve been busy. Too busy for cat chat,” she snipped.
At first, I didn’t get it. But then the pieces fell into place. It was all about our cat. For the last month, we’d been nursing Delilah—our sleek black beauty, officially registered as “Delilah von Whiskerton the Third,” if you must know. It started with her feeling poorly, then spiralled into vet visits, dodgy diagnoses, injections, pills, treatments, drips—all for nothing. She only got worse. One clinic nearly finished her off.
Then, at the third practice, we found a proper vet—calm, thoughtful, experienced. Ultrasound, tests, exams… He insisted on surgery. I was terrified. I didn’t want to lose her, but I trusted him—thank heavens I did. The recovery was rough: syringe-feeding her water, spooning mush into her mouth, sleeping on the floor beside her in case she took a turn. But Delilah pulled through. Now she’s back to eating on her own, using her litter tray, purring, and curling up in our laps like nothing happened.
Just before Mum’s sudden cold shoulder, I’d casually mentioned the vet bills. You know—eye-watering sums. Mum had gasped, “That’s more than my pension! Have you lost the plot?” The call ended… awkwardly. I brushed it off, but clearly, Mum had been stewing. At some point, something in her head just *clicked*.
I couldn’t take it. Hearing her gripe about my “cat obsession,” I cut to the chase:
“Mum… are you jealous of Delilah?”
“Don’t be daft! It’s just odd, that’s all. You spend more on that cat than your own mother!”
“But she was *ill*, Mum! Was I supposed to put her down? Cheaper than surgery, I suppose…”
“That’s not what I meant,” she muttered, deflating a bit.
“Look, you know Alex and I would help in a heartbeat. If you need anything, just say—I’ll come over, we’ll sort it. I’ll transfer you money, get you whatever you need. You’re *always* first. Delilah’s just… family too. We love her.”
Mum thawed. Her voice lost its arctic edge, and she sighed. “I know… you do help. Thank you. I just don’t get how you could spend so much on a pet.”
“Because we love her. And it’s not a competition. We love you *and* her. Deal? Next time, just *tell* me if you need something. Otherwise, I’ll start turning up unannounced to inspect your fridge and medicine cabinet.”
“Good grief, no spot checks,” Mum laughed. “Sorry, I was being daft. Just come over—I’ve missed you.”
“On my way,” I grinned. “And you’d better have baked those scones!”
That evening, Alex and I went round. Tea, scones, chatter, laughter. Back to normal. And I thanked my lucky stars for my mum—stubborn, sensitive, utterly mine. Delilah’s fine now, too. Here’s hoping it stays that way.
