She was jealous… of the cat
I never imagined I’d find myself tangled in such a ridiculous, if not downright silly, predicament. Mum and I call each other every day—sometimes even twice, morning and night. But for two days straight, she wouldn’t pick up: either dismissing the call or letting it ring out. I grew properly worried. I was about to drive to her house—maybe something was wrong with her phone? It was a new smartphone, mind you, a gift from my husband, Thomas, for Mother’s Day, but Mum’s never been too handy with gadgets.
Then—a miracle! She responded at last, but her voice was frosty, like I’d wandered into some stern bureaucrat’s office:
“Yes, I’m listening.”
“Mum, where’ve you been? I’ve been beside myself—couldn’t reach you for two days!”
“Had no time to chat. Especially about cats,” she clipped.
At first, I didn’t understand, but the pieces quickly fell into place. It was all about our cat. For the past month, we’d been nursing Delilah—our sleek black beauty, officially named *Lady Delilah Winthrop* if we’re being precise. It started with her feeling poorly, then frantic trips to vets, dodgy diagnoses, endless injections, pills, procedures, drips—all for nothing. She only got worse, and one clinic nearly finished her off.
Then, at the third place, we found a proper vet—calm, experienced, thorough. Ultrasounds, tests, exams… He insisted on surgery. I was terrified. The thought of losing her tore at me, but I trusted him—and rightly so. Recovery was gruelling: spoon-feeding her, syringing water into her mouth, sleeping on the floor beside her in case she took a turn. And Delilah, thank heavens, pulled through. Now she’s eating on her own, using her litter tray, purring, and curling up beside us like before.
Right before Mum’s sulk, I’d called her and casually mentioned the vet bills. Well—you can imagine. The numbers were staggering. Mum had gasped:
“That’s more than my pension! Have you lost your mind?”
The call ended without a row, but it wasn’t exactly warm either. I’d felt a prick of unease but brushed it aside. Mum, though, must’ve stewed on it until something in her head *snapped*.
I couldn’t take it. Hearing her snipe about my “cat obsession,” I cut straight to it:
“Mum… are you jealous of Delilah?”
“Don’t be daft! It’s just odd, is all—spending more on a 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, less sure of herself now.
“Listen, you know Thomas and I would help in a heartbeat. If you need anything, say the word—I’ll come over, we’ll sort it. I’ll send you money, buy whatever you need. You know you come first. The cat’s just… family too. We love her.”
Mum softened. The ice thawed from her voice, and she said what I’d been waiting to hear:
“Well… you do help. Thank you. I just don’t see how anyone could spend that much on an animal.”
“Because we love her. And don’t compare—it’s not *either-or*. We love you both. How about this—next time you need something, call straight away. Or I’ll start turning up unannounced to inspect your fridge and medicine cabinet!”
“Oh, Lottie, not the inspections,” Mum laughed. “I’m sorry, I was being daft. Just come over—I’ve missed you.”
“On my way,” I smiled. “And don’t you dare forget to bake your scones!”
That evening, Thomas and I drove over. Tea, scones, chatter, laughter. Just like always. And quietly, I thanked God for my mum—stubborn, prickly, impossible, but utterly mine. Delilah’s fine now, too. Here’s hoping it stays that way.
