PALM: A TALE OF AN UNINTENTIONAL FAMILY
That summer, I ran away. Simply packed a suitcase, shut the door behind me, and left to live with my husband. I was twenty-two. As I walked out, Mum shouted after me:
—Slut! And don’t you dare come crawling back when you’re saddled with it!
I clutched the suitcase handle and thought, *Odd… You were the one who wanted grandchildren.* The suitcase, poor thing, had done nothing wrong, but Mum kicked it with her slipper as if it were the reason for her loneliness.
I pitied her—truly. But living with her was unbearable. I’d dreamed of leaving since I was sixteen. And now, the dream had come true. 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 neighbours, but they turned out just as selfish—eating her food but never listening, slamming doors, walking away.
She got sick. Not physically—just theatrically, manipulatively, pathetically. There were ominous pauses in her calls, slammed-down phones, the ever-present stench of smelling salts. Guilt gnawed at me.
Then I realised: she needed a new “child.” Something to infuriate and frustrate her, something to nurture, something to make her feel indispensable. So I told my husband:
—Tomorrow, we’re going to the pet market. Buying Mum a cat.
He nodded, mouth full of roast and mash. After years of student instant noodles, he wasn’t about to argue with home-cooked meals. He just chewed gratefully. I’d trained him, just as Mum had trained me. The circle was complete.
Saturday morning, we drove out. The market stank of hay and wet fur, alive with barking and squawking. The heat was oppressive. At first, I thought I was dizzy from hunger—I was on one of those sensible girl diets, swapping meals for yogurt. But no, this wasn’t hunger.
This was despair.
Cages and crates lined the stalls, each one holding desperation—yapping, mewling, screeching, squeaking. It was loneliness made flesh, staring out with pleading eyes. My head swam.
Walking between the rows, I fantasised about flinging open the doors, shouting, *Run! I’ll hold them off!* But I didn’t. I trudged on under the gaze of doomed creatures.
—Let’s go, I told my husband.
—No cat? he asked.
—Fine, that one, I jabbed a finger at the nearest cage.
Inside was a battle-scarred thing, blotchy and surly, looking like it might ask, *What d’you want?* The vendor said:
—£700. She’s a Bengal.
I didn’t know what a Bengal was. Maybe a breed, maybe an insult—the feline equivalent of “bloody hell.” We were just starting to make proper money, saving for my winter coat. And now—£700 for a cat? That was an entire season gone in one purchase.
—We’ll take her, I blurted. Even surprised myself.
—You’re mad, my husband sighed. —Love’s supposed to be free.
—Not this kind, I shot back. —This one’s got *pedigree.*
We argued. Then, beneath the stall, something darted out—a scrawny kitten, patchy fur, eyes like saucers. It latched onto my leg.
—Whose is this? I asked.
—Nobody’s. Mange-ridden stray. Chuck it out, the vendor shrugged.
My husband looked at the kitten and said,
—*That’s* your mother-in-law’s type. Survives anything.
I met his gaze. He nodded. No words needed.
The kitten curled in my hands, legs tucked awkwardly. Ridiculous. Charming. No papers, no pedigree—just *real.*
—Straight to Mum’s? my husband asked.
—No. Needs washing, vet visits, a proper makeover. Otherwise, she won’t last a day against Mum’s wallpaper.
At home, we discovered—*she* was a whirlwind. By evening, she’d shredded my tights, coated my husband’s jumper in fur, peeled a strip of wallpaper, and executed a backflip off the sofa.
We treated her. Bathed her, vet visits, flea collars. Named her Lottie—short for *Palm,* because she fit in one. Tiny thing.
Within a week, Lottie had carved herself a place in our lives. Alarm clock, therapist, comedian. Purred like a vacuum while eating, slept belly-up, ambushed us from laundry piles.
Time came to take her to Mum. I texted: *Got a surprise for you.* We got ready… then didn’t. My head ached (damn yogurt diet). Lottie bounced around, chasing her shadow. She had plans.
—You catch her, my husband said. —I’m not part of this betrayal.
We drove. Sun blazed through the windscreen. Lottie sprawled on her back, panting, begging for belly rubs.
—Tell your Mum she’s a British Shorthair. Bitey kind, my husband muttered.
I wasn’t laughing. He saw my face. Wordlessly, we turned the car around. Went home.
—Find Mum another one…
Lottie still lives with us. She’s eight now. Has a passport (adoption day as her birthday), toys, vaccinations, her own armchair. She taught us we could be decent parents. So we had children.
Our little fluff miracle. No pedigree. No airs.
Just soul. Real as life.
