“That bloody cat means more to you than your own nephew!” Mum shrieked.
Ever since I was little, I—Emily—had dreamed of having my own cat. So, at 20, I finally got one from a trusted breeder in a quaint town near Bristol. I named him Whiskers, and he became my best mate. I spent all my free time with him: grooming, playing, doting. He wasn’t just a pet—he was a piece of my soul, my comfort on the rubbish days. My parents, Margaret and James, never protested, but they never *got* it either. “Might as well have a baby instead of fussing over a cat!” Mum would snipe. Her words stung, but I bit my tongue to keep the peace.
My older sister, Victoria, had a son, Oliver, and suddenly I was drafted as chief babysitter. Honestly? I felt no warmth for the kid. I helped out—cooked, cleaned, did the laundry—but playing auntie just drained me. No joy, just duty. When Victoria was knackered, Mum took over. Me? I’d dash home to Whiskers. His purrs, his loyalty—that was my happy place. One day, Mum lost it: “You’d *really* choose that animal over your own nephew?!”
“Yeah,” I admitted. Because it was true. Whiskers was my light; Oliver, however related, was just… there. Mum exploded. “How can you say that?! He’s *family!*” Victoria just laughed, calling me mental. But I held my ground. Why fake affection I didn’t feel? Their outrage only made me dig in deeper. I wouldn’t pretend for their approval.
Mum decided revenge was in order. After a night at my mate’s, I came home to find Whiskers gone. “Must’ve bolted when the door was open,” she said coolly. My heart shattered. I sobbed, called neighbours, plastered posters—nothing. Losing him wrecked me. He’d been my anchor. Eventually, I moved in with my fiancé, Andrew, in London. We adopted another kitten, but the ache for Whiskers never faded.
Months later, back in my hometown, my little brother, Thomas, cracked. Turned out Mum and Victoria had conspired to “teach me a lesson”—they’d chucked Whiskers out because I dared to love him more than Oliver. Thomas had gone along at first but later realised how cruel it was. Hearing it, I went cold. My own mother and sister had betrayed me, taken what I loved most, just to prove a point. To them, Whiskers was just a cat. To me? Family.
How could they not see? Whiskers had been there through every rough patch—his warmth got me out of bed on days even tea couldn’t fix. Oliver? Nice kid, but not mine. I helped Victoria out of obligation, but she repaid me by siding with Mum’s cruelty. They’d wanted to “fix” me, force me to love Oliver like I loved Whiskers. And when I didn’t bend? They punished me. Not just betrayal—erasure.
I’ll never know what became of Whiskers. I hope someone kind took him in. But the hurt? That’s permanent. Mum and Victoria broke my trust. Their stunt showed how little they valued my heart. I’m done with their world, where love’s a duty, not a choice. Whiskers was mine—my joy, my *right*. Now, it’s just me, Andrew, and the new kitten. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone shame me for loving who—or *what*—I choose ever again.
