**Hair on the Plate: How Arguments Over a Cat Destroyed Love**
*— Oliver, I’m asking you for the last time! Drop it! You promised you wouldn’t speak poorly about my son again!* Lydia fought to keep her voice steady, but it trembled with anger.
*— I’m not speaking poorly, I’m speaking the truth!* Oliver shot back. *He’s living off you, and you just let him. Can’t you see you’re raising a freeloader?*
*— I said, conversation over!* Lydia nearly shouted. *My son is in university. While he studies, I’ll support him. I don’t need your permission!*
*— So my opinion means nothing?* Oliver scoffed. *You only want to hear flattery? No, love, you’ll have to consider me too!*
*— No, I won’t!* Lydia snapped. *If you don’t stop, I’ll walk out right now. Again! Two weeks ago, you swore we wouldn’t discuss this anymore. Forgotten?*
*— Of course I remember!* Oliver growled. *But how can I stay silent when he acts like this? You’d give him the shirt off your back, and he doesn’t even appreciate it!*
*— Who said he doesn’t?!* Lydia’s hands shook with rage. *Jake loves me and thanks me for everything. Stop it, I said! End of discussion!*
She turned and stormed into the kitchen, trying to steady herself. But Oliver, still burning with self-righteous fury, followed.
*— Lydia, won’t you even hear me out?* His voice nearly pleaded. *Don’t I deserve that much?*
*— Have a child, raise him, then you can lecture me!* she shot back. *Your words are just empty envy!*
Oliver had a daughter from his first marriage—but he hadn’t seen her in eight years. Her mother had moved to another city when she was barely two.
*— Envy?!* He stiffened. *You think I envy your layabout son? That’s rubbish!*
*— Yes, envy!* Lydia fired back. *He’s only twenty, and he has everything you never had!*
*— Oh, like mummy renting him a flat and topping up his bank account daily? That’s what I’m supposed to envy?* Oliver sneered.
*— Clearly!* she countered. *Otherwise, why else would you be so obsessed?*
*— I’m just trying to tell you you’ve spoiled him rotten!*
*— If I want to, I will! He’s my only son, and I can afford it!*
*— Oh yes, you’re a millionaire now, are you?*
The argument hadn’t even started over Jake. Lydia didn’t know how they’d circled back to him. Earlier, they’d been peacefully watching telly when an ad for a massage chair played. Oliver had been excited, already pricing one out.
Lydia hadn’t objected but reminded him:
*— Let’s wait a bit. I told you I’d rather avoid big expenses until my salary comes through. Might even need to borrow from you.*
She never asked him for money. Delayed pay was rare in her remote job, but this time, it was late. She earned well—half again what Oliver made. Enough for rent, food, and helping Jake.
*— Lydia, if money’s tight, don’t you think someone could get a part-time job?* Oliver hinted.
*— You mean Jake?* Her frown deepened. *I’ve said it before—no. I sent him to study, not shout ‘Next customer, please!’*
*— He’s a grown man! Shouldn’t he learn money doesn’t grow on trees?*
*— He knows that without your input!*
*— No, he doesn’t, not while you hand him everything on a plate!*
*— That’s none of your business! I’ve had enough!*
The fight dragged on another half-hour before simmering down. Trying to ease the tension, Lydia made tea and sandwiches.
*— Here,* she said, sliding a plate toward him.
Oliver grimaced and pushed it away. *— Not hungry—* Then he froze. *— Look! Cat hair on the plate! That bloody cat drives me mad! Why is there so much fur? Don’t you ever clean?*
*— I clean twice a week! Any more, I don’t have time!*
*— You’re home all day! Is it so hard to pick up a mop?*
*— I’m not just ‘home’—I’m working and earning more than you!*
Oliver paled. Her tone—mocking, dismissive—stoked the fire.
*— So now I’m not a man anymore?* he hissed.
*— I never said that! You’re twisting my words! Cleaning isn’t just a woman’s job!*
*— Did I say it was?!*
*— No, but how many times have *you* cleaned since we moved in? Not once! And it’s been six months!*
Oliver faltered. She was right—he’d left it all to her—but pride barred him from admitting it.
*— Oh, poor delicate you! Sweeping’s a heroic feat now!*
*— Stop shouting—you’re scaring Marmalade!*
The ginger tom had fled under the sofa, eyes wide.
*— He’s part of the problem! Neither your son nor that cat has any discipline!*
*— Oh, here we go again! Maybe you should take a walk!*
*— This is *my* flat!*
*— We split the rent!*
*— I lived here first—it’s mine!*
*— Fine! Then I’m moving back with Jake tomorrow!* She slammed the bathroom door behind her.
*— Go on then! Who’d want you at forty-three anyway!*
The words stung. Yet it had all begun so beautifully…
Lydia grew up in a small town, fell in love, married, and had Jake. Six years later, divorced. Her ex paid child support until Jake turned eighteen, and she raised him alone—determined he’d have more chances than she did. When he got into uni, she paid for everything.
That summer, they’d gone to Lancaster together. Jake had passed on grades alone. He’d begged her to stay—*Why go back to that town? You can work remotely!*—so she did. Weekends were cafés, films, even their first theatre visit—where they’d met Oliver.
They’d dated, moved in—but Jake stayed in his own flat. Lydia visited weekly, cooking meals for him. When term started, she’d insisted he focus on studies, not part-time work. Oliver had resented it, sparking fights like tonight’s.
After one last furious argument, she’d slept in the bathroom, woken by Marmalade scratching at the door. By morning, Oliver was gone—left for work without a word.
She packed without hesitation, texting Jake: *I’m coming back.*
*— That bad?* he replied.
*— Worse.*
At his flat, they ordered pizza, watched a comedy, and talked. The hurt lingered—but with Jake, it dulled.
*— Glad you’re back,* he smiled. *Missed you.*
*— Liar,* she laughed, kissing his cheek.
Oliver’s last message sat unanswered: *I’m sorry.* She blocked him.
That evening, he returned to an empty flat—messy, cat hair on the floor, kitchen in disarray. Let him clean it himself.
Pride kept him from begging. And Lydia? She didn’t look back.
No one insults a mother’s child and gets away with it. Oliver never learned that.
