PALM: A TALE OF ONE UNINTENTIONAL FAMILY
That summer, I ran away. Just packed a suitcase, shut the door behind me, and left to live with my husband. I was twenty-two. As I walked, my mother shouted after me:
“Trollop! And don’t you dare come crawling back when you’re carrying one!”
I clutched the suitcase handle, thinking, “Odd—you were the one who wanted grandchildren…” The poor thing hadn’t done anything wrong, but she’d kicked it with her slipper like it was the reason she was alone.
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’d become a traitor.
Without me, she had no one to control, no one to lecture, no one to scold. She tried bothering the neighbours instead, but they were just as selfish—eating her food but ignoring her rules. Slamming doors. Walking away.
She got ill. Not the real kind—the dramatic, manipulative kind. Threatening silences during calls, hanging up, the constant reek of smelling salts. I lived with guilt.
Then it hit me—she needed a new “child.” Something to infuriate her, test her, give her purpose. So I told my husband:
“Tomorrow, we’re going to the pet market. We’re buying Mum a cat.”
He nodded, mouth full of bangers and mash. After years of instant noodles, he wasn’t about to argue with home-cooked food. He just chewed gratefully. I’d trained him, just like Mum trained me. The circle was complete.
Saturday morning, we set off. The market reeked of manure, a chaotic chorus of barks and squawks, the air thick with heat. My stomach turned. At first, I blamed the hunger—I was “being sensible,” swapping meals for black coffee. But no—this was something else.
Despair.
In cages, boxes, crates—neediness for sale. Barking, mewling, shrieking, squeaking. Loneliness, alive and pleading. It stared back with desperate eyes, begging. My head spun.
I imagined flinging the cages open, screaming, “Run! I’ll hold them off!” But I didn’t. Just trudged on, weighed down by hundreds of doomed creatures watching me pass.
“Let’s go,” I muttered.
“Without a cat?” he asked.
“Fine, this one,” I jabbed at the nearest cage.
Inside sat a battle-worn tabby, scruffy and unimpressed, its expression screaming, *What d’you want?* The seller named a price—£300.
“A Bengal,” he said.
I didn’t know what that meant. Maybe a breed, maybe an insult—like, *This one’s a right menace!* We’d just started earning, saving for a winter coat. Now, £300 for a cat? That was the whole season, gone in one go.
“We’ll take it,” I blurted, surprising myself.
“Have you lost it?” My husband sighed. “Love’s supposed to be free.”
“Not this kind,” I shot back. “This one’s got papers!”
We argued. Then, something darted from under the stall—a scrawny kitten, patchy fur, saucer-wide eyes. It latched onto my leg.
“Whose is this?” I asked.
“No one’s. Mangy stray. Chuck it out,” the seller shrugged.
My husband eyed the kitten and muttered,
“Now *that’s* your mother’s type. It’d survive a nuclear winter.”
I looked at him. He nodded. No words needed.
The kitten curled in my hands, tucking its paws awkwardly. No pedigree, no papers—just raw, scrappy charm.
“Straight to your mum’s?” he asked.
“No. She needs baths, vet trips, a proper makeover. Mum’s wallpaper wouldn’t survive her.”
At home, we discovered—she was a girl. A tornado on paws. By evening, she’d shredded my tights, coated my husband’s jumper in fur, peeled the wallpaper, and performed a backflip off the sofa.
We nursed her. Bathed her, vet visits, flea collars. Named her Liddy—short for “Little Palm,” because she fit in one.
Within a week, she’d claimed the house. Alarm clock, comedian, therapist. Purred like a motor when eating, slept belly-up, ambushed us from the laundry.
Time came to take her to Mum. I texted: *Got a surprise for you.* We got ready… then stalled. A headache from that damned coffee diet. Liddy bounced around, chasing her shadow, blissfully unaware.
“Catch her,” my husband said. “I refuse to be an accomplice.”
We drove. Summer heat blasted through the windscreen. Liddy sprawled on her back, panting, begging for belly rubs.
“Tell your mum she’s a British Shorthair. The bitey kind,” he mumbled.
I wasn’t laughing. He caught my look. Without a word, we turned the car around.
“We’ll find Mum another one…”
Eight years on, Liddy’s still ours. She’s got papers now (backdated to the day we found her), toys, jabs, her own armchair. Thanks to her, we learned we could be decent parents. Took the plunge with kids.
Our little miracle. No pedigree. No pretence.
Just soul. The real kind. The kind that sticks.
