**PALM: A STORY OF ONE UNINTENTIONAL FAMILY**
That summer, I left. Just packed a suitcase, shut the door behind me, and moved in with my boyfriend. I was twenty-two. As I walked away, Mum shouted after me:
“You dirty little trollop! And don’t you dare come crawling back when you’re knocked up!”
I gripped the suitcase handle and thought, *That’s odd—wasn’t it you who kept going on about grandkids?* The poor suitcase hadn’t done a thing wrong, but Mum kicked it with her slipper like it was the reason she was alone.
I did feel sorry for her—honestly. But living with her was unbearable. I’d dreamed of leaving since I was sixteen. And now, here I was. The traitor.
Mum had no one left to control, no one to lecture, no one to scold. She tried replacing me with the neighbors, but they turned out just as selfish—ate her food but didn’t listen, slammed doors, walked out.
Then she got “sick.” Her own special kind of sick—dramatic, manipulative, full of sighs. Threatening silences on the phone, sudden hang-ups, the permanent medicinal whiff of *Valocardin*. I lived with the guilt.
And one day, it hit me: she needed a new “baby.” Something to fuss over, to scold, to make her feel needed. So I turned to my boyfriend and said:
“Tomorrow, we’re going to the pet market. We’re getting Mum a cat.”
He nodded, mouth full of borscht and salad. After years of student instant noodles, he wasn’t about to argue with home cooking. He just chewed gratefully. I’d trained him, the way Mum trained me. The circle was complete.
Saturday morning, we drove over. The market hit us first with the smell of manure, then the chaos of voices, the sticky summer heat. The world tilted. At first, I thought it was hunger—I was on one of those *clever* girl diets, swapping meals for yogurt. But no.
This was despair.
In cages and boxes, need was for sale. Barking, mewling, squealing, shrieking. Loneliness made flesh. It stared out with pleading eyes, begging to be saved. My head spun properly then.
Walking past the rows, I thought, *Open the cages. Scream, “Run! I’ll hold them off!”* But I didn’t. Just trudged past, under the weight of a hundred doomed stares.
“Let’s go,” I told my boyfriend.
“No cat?” he asked.
“Fine. That one.” I pointed at the nearest cage.
Inside sat a battle-hardened face, all spotted and grumpy, with a look that said, *What d’you want?* The seller said:
“£500. She’s a Bengal.”
I didn’t know what a Bengal was. Sounded either posh or insulting, like, *Bloody hell!* We’d just started working, saving for my winter coat. Now this—£500 for a cat. An entire winter, gone in one purchase.
“We’ll take her,” I blurted. Even surprised myself.
“Have you lost it?” He sighed. “Love’s supposed to be free.”
“Not this kind,” I shot back. “This one’s *pedigree*.”
We argued. Then something darted under the stall. A kitten. Grey, scraggly, eyes like saucers. It launched at my leg and clung on.
“Whose is this?” I asked.
“Nobody’s. Mangy stray. Chuck it out,” the seller shrugged.
My boyfriend looked at the kitten and muttered,
“That’s your mum’s kind. Survives anything.”
I looked at him. He nodded. No words needed.
The kitten curled in my hands, paws tucked in like a little loaf. Ridiculous. Charming. No papers, no pedigree—just *real*.
“Straight to Mum’s?” he asked.
“No. She needs a bath, meds, a makeover. Mum’s wallpaper wouldn’t survive her.”
At home, we discovered—*she* was a whirlwind. A tiny hurricane. By bedtime, she’d shredded my tights, left fur on his jumper, peeled wallpaper, and done backflips off the sofa.
We fixed her up. Washed her, vet visits, flea collar. Named her *Palm*—because she fit in one.
Within a week, she owned the place. Alarm clock, comedian, therapist. Purred like a hoover while eating. Slept belly-up. Hid in laundry, ambushed us from under the bed.
Time came to take her to Mum. I texted, *Got a surprise for you*. We got ready… but couldn’t. My head ached from that stupid yogurt diet. Palm bounced around, chasing her shadow. She had plans.
“You catch her,” my boyfriend said. “I’m not helping you betray her.”
We drove. Summer heat blasted through the windshield. Palm sprawled on her back, panting, demanding belly rubs.
“Tell your mum she’s a *British Longhair*. Bit bitey,” he mumbled.
I didn’t laugh. He caught my look. We parked. Walked back inside. No words.
“We’ll find Mum another one.”
Eight years on, Palm’s still here. Passport, birthday (the day we found her), toys, jabs, her own sofa. She taught us we could be good parents. Made us brave enough to try for kids.
Our little miracle. No pedigree. No airs.
Just soul. The real kind. Like life.
