PALM: THE STORY OF AN UNINTENTIONAL FAMILY
That summer, I ran away. Just packed a suitcase, shut the door behind me, and left for my husband’s place. I was twenty-two. As I walked, my mother’s voice hissed at my back:
“Tramp! And don’t you dare come crawling back when you’re knocked up!”
I gripped the suitcase handle, thinking, *How odd—wasn’t it you who kept begging for grandchildren?* The suitcase, poor thing, hadn’t done a thing wrong, but my mother had kicked it with her slipper as if it were the cause of her loneliness.
I pitied her—truly. But living with her was unbearable. I’d dreamed of leaving since I was sixteen. And now, here I was. I had become the betrayer.
With no one to control, no one to lecture, no one to scold, she turned to the neighbours. But even they proved as selfish as I was—eating her food but ignoring her sermons. Slamming doors. Walking away.
She fell ill. Not the kind you treat with medicine—no, hers was theatrical, full of ominous silences on the phone, slammed receivers, the sour tang of Valerian drops clinging to every word. Guilt gnawed at me.
Then it struck me: she needed a new “child.” Something—someone—to infuriate, to scold, to mould, to *need* her. So I told my husband:
“Tomorrow, we’re going to The Garden Market. We’re buying Mum a cat.”
He nodded, mouth full of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Arguing was impossible—not when he’d traded student noodles for home-cooked meals. He just chewed gratefully. I trained him as Mum had trained me. The circle was complete.
Saturday morning, we arrived. The market hit us—manure, sweat, the shriek of vendors. The air was thick enough to chew. I swayed, blaming the hunger at first (I was “being sensible,” swapping meals for cottage cheese). But no—this wasn’t hunger.
It was despair.
In cages, boxes, crates—loneliness barked, screamed, mewled. It stared through glassy eyes, begging. My head spun. *Open the doors*, I thought. *Shout, “Run! I’ll hold them off!”* But I didn’t. I trudged on, under the weight of a hundred doomed gazes.
“Let’s go,” I told my husband.
“Without a cat?” he frowned.
“Fine. That one.” I pointed at the nearest cage.
Inside scowled a battle-worn tabby, speckled and surly, its expression pure *What d’you want?* The vendor smirked.
“£750. She’s a Bengal.”
I didn’t know if “Bengal” meant pedigree or insult—like shouting *Bloody hell!* We were just starting to earn, saving for a winter coat. £750? That was heating for a month.
“We’ll take her,” I blurted, surprising myself.
“Have you lost it?” my husband groaned. “Love’s supposed to be free.”
“Not this kind,” I shot back. “She’s got *papers*!”
We bickered. Then—movement under the stall. A kitten. Scruffy, greying, eyes like saucers. It launched, latching onto my ankle.
“Whose is this?” I asked.
“Nobody’s. Mangy little stray. Chuck it out,” the vendor shrugged.
My husband eyed the creature. “Now *that’s* your mother’s type. Survives hell on toast.”
I looked at him. He nodded. No words needed.
The kitten curled into my palm, paws tucked, ridiculous and perfect. No papers, no pedigree—just *real*.
“Straight to Mum’s?” my husband asked.
“No. She needs baths, vet trips, a proper glow-up. Mum’s wallpaper wouldn’t survive her.”
Home revealed the truth: she was chaos. A whirlwind of claws and mischief. By evening, she’d shredded my tights, coated my husband’s jumper in fur, peeled wallpaper, and backflipped off the sofa.
We fixed her. Bathed her. Vet visits, flea collars. Named her Pearl—Palm for short, since she fit in a hand. Just a wisp of a thing.
Within a week, Palm ruled the house. Alarm clock, comedian, therapist. She purred like a diesel engine, slept belly-up, hid in laundry, ambushed us from under the bath.
Time came to deliver her to Mum. I texted *We’ve got a surprise for you.* We stalled. My head throbbed (stupid cottage cheese diet). Palm bounced after her shadow, busy with kitten agendas.
“You catch her,” my husband muttered. “I won’t be part of this betrayal.”
We drove. Summer heat pressed through the windshield. Palm sprawled on my lap, panting, begging for belly rubs.
“Tell your mum she’s a British Shorthair. The bitey kind,” my husband grumbled.
I wasn’t laughing. He saw it. Without a word, we turned the car around.
“We’ll find Mum another one…”
Eight years on, Palm’s still ours. She’s got a passport (birthday: the day we found her), toys, jabs, and her own armchair. She taught us we could be parents. We dared to have kids.
Our little miracle. No pedigree. No pretence.
But soul? Oh yes. Real as the dirt under her claws.
