**PALM: A STORY OF ONE UNINTENTIONAL FAMILY**
That summer, I ran away. Just packed a suitcase, shut the door behind me, and went to my husband. I was twenty-two. As I left, Mum shouted after me:
“Slut! And don’t you dare come crawling back when you’re knocked up!”
I walked, gripping the suitcase handle, thinking, *”How odd—you were the one who wanted grandchildren.”* The suitcase, poor thing, hadn’t done anything wrong, but Mum kicked it with her slipper like it was the reason she was alone.
I *did* pity 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 betrayer.
Mum had no one left to control, no one to scold, no one to lecture. She tried replacing me with the neighbours, but they turned out to be just as selfish—eating her food but never listening, slamming doors, walking out.
Then she got ill. Not in the usual way—dramatically, manipulatively, *pitifully*. There were ominous silences during calls, slammed-down phones, the ever-present whiff of smelling salts. I lived with guilt gnawing at me.
Then it hit me: she needed a new “child.” Something to infuriate her, challenge her, give her purpose. So I turned to my husband:
“Tomorrow, we’re going to the pet market. We’re buying Mum a cat.”
He nodded. His mouth was full of borscht and beetroot salad, and when you’ve spent years eating instant noodles, you don’t argue with home-cooked meals. He just chewed gratefully. I was training him—just like Mum had trained me. The circle was complete.
Saturday morning, we drove to the market. The air hit us first—manure, cacophony, sweat. My stomach turned. At first, I blamed it on hunger—I’d been starving myself, like every “reasonable” girl chasing skinny. But no.
This was despair.
In cages, crates, tiny boxes—misery for sale. Barking, mewling, shrieking, squeaking. Loneliness made flesh, staring, pleading. My head spun.
I walked between rows, thinking, *”Open the doors. Scream, ‘Run! I’ll hold them off!’”* But I didn’t. I trudged on, under the weight of doomed eyes.
“Let’s go,” I muttered.
“No cat?” my husband asked.
“Fine—that one.” I pointed at the nearest cage.
Inside sat a battle-scarred tom, blotchy, tired, with a look that said, *”The hell d’you want?”*
“Seven hundred quid. He’s a Bengal,” the seller said.
I didn’t know what a Bengal was—breed or insult? We were barely scraping by, saving for a winter coat. Seven hundred quid—that was heating for months.
“We’ll take him,” I blurted, surprising myself.
“Lost the plot?” My husband groaned. “Love’s supposed to be free.”
“Not *this* kind,” I shot back. “This one’s got papers!”
We bickered—then something darted under the table. A kitten. Scrawny, patchy fur, eyes like saucers. It lunged, clinging to my leg.
“Whose is this?”
“Nobody’s. Stray—got mites. Chuck it,” the seller shrugged.
My husband studied the kitten. “*That’s* your mother’s future cat. He’d survive Armageddon.”
I looked at him. He nodded. No words needed.
The kitten curled in my hands, tucking its paws like a tiny boxer. Ridiculous. Charming. No pedigree. Just *real*.
“Straight to your mum’s?” my husband asked.
“No. Bathe her, vet her, make her presentable. Mum’s wallpaper wouldn’t survive the shock.”
At home, we discovered—*she* was a whirlwind. By evening, she’d shredded tights, shed on jumpers, clawed walls, and backflipped off the sofa.
We treated her. Bathed her, vet-checked her, flea-collared her. Named her *Palm*—because she fit in one. A scrap of life.
Within a week, Palm *was* the house. Alarm clock, therapist, comedian. She purred like a motor, 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 stalled. My head ached—bloody starvation diet. Meanwhile, Palm bounced after her shadow, plotting the day’s chaos.
“You catch her,” my husband said. “I won’t be an accomplice.”
We drove. Summer blazed through the windscreen. Palm sprawled on the seat, panting, belly begging for rubs.
“Tell your mum she’s a… British Shorthair. Bitey breed,” he muttered.
I didn’t laugh. He caught my look. We parked. Walked home. No discussion.
“We’ll find your mum… another cat.”
Eight years on, Palm’s ours. Passport, birthday (the day we found her), toys, her *own* armchair. She taught us we could be parents. Made us brave enough for kids.
Our scruffy miracle. No breed. No papers. No pretence.
Just soul. Real as life.
