While There’s Still Time

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 6 minViews 7

When she was twelve, she faced an operation. Simple, scheduled, an hour under anaesthetic, straightforward work and discharge the same day. She never pressed me to accompany her; she knew I was busy, the new branch opening at the firm was on the horizon.
Everything will be fine, she said, Ill call when its over. She planted a kiss on my cheek, slipped a few packets of cat food for the cats that lived in the cellar into her bag, and fluttered out the door.

I adjusted my tie, gave myself one more meticulous onceover in the mirror, grabbed the project folder from the desk and drove off to work. As chief executive of the company I had built into a market leader over the past few years, I was expected to give my all. And I did, every spare minute, in abundance, soothing myself with the thought that it was for us, for her, even for the cellar cats she fed so often.

I wasnt a cat hater; it was simply her hobby, which to me seemed pointless, without any real purpose. I tolerated it as one tolerates the quirks of a beloved partner. Thats why I always turned down her attempts to bring stray, flearidden kittens home. There was no sense in it, no benefit. I could at most offer a pedigree Oriental cat as a compromisesomething with a veneer of status. The cellar cats? What could they possibly give me? She grew weary of trying to explain.

An operation simple scheduled nothing extraordinary I ought to have gone with her! I repeated the thought a thousand times in a single week. I imagined myself racing away from everything to the hospital, clutching the white coats cuffs, shaking as the surgeons eyes flicked over me, tearing the project that kept me apart from her into shreds, kneeling by her bedside, forehead pressed to her hand, begging her not to leave. But she stayed silent. Neither of us knew that a routine hour of anaesthesia could turn into a tragic fate.

The doctors are doing everything they can, the surgeon tried to assure me.
Youre doing nothing! I snapped, helpless, paying for her transfer to a private ward.
Theres a chance, we must wait, the nurse soothed.
Where is that chance? I bellowed down the corridor when, a week later, she still lay unresponsive.

I tried everythingconsultations with the finest specialists, music, conversation, flooding her room with flowers. I almost stopped going to the office, just to be near her whenever a minute opened. I pleaded, promised, even blackmailed. In moments of frantic hope I kissed her, recalling the absurd fairy tale of the sleeping beauty, and each passing day sank me deeper into despair, into a feral fury that wanted to smash everything in its path.

A chair overturned, a vase shattered, my bag flung aside in a burst of rage, its rainbowcoloured packets of cat food spilling onto the floor. She never got the chance to feed those catsthose same useless felines that I had always kept at arms length behind a mask of indifference.

God, hes a fool! I muttered, wishing I could rewind time, erase the mess with a wave of my hand, crawl on my knees beside her, take those cats home, love them, if only to

The adrenaline that had been boiling within me suddenly ebbed. Exhausted, I bent trembling hands to gather the scattered catfood packets, knowing that in ten minutes I would be standing at the cellar door once more.

This is called feline therapy, the attending doctor said seriously, watching me haul a sixth carriage into the ward. There are no recorded cases like ours, though.
So well be the first, I whispered, releasing the animals from their cages.

Theyre her cats. Understand? Hers! Id give the world to tell her that. Just to
Ill inform the staff.
Thank you I should have done this sooner you see?
Never lose hope. We all learn from our mistakes, remember that.
I wont forget Ill never forget again.

Years later, the memory of that twelveyearolds operation still lingers. She never insisted I be there, yet she could not hide the grin that lit her face when I, after loosening my tie, cursed and slipped on yet another harness for the resistant cats that fled from me.

Her cellar catsthe same fleacovered brood that had awakened her a year prior, leaving her gasping for breath without understanding whystill haunt the recollection. Seven pairs of eyes drilled into her, six sighs barely audible, and one triumphant cry of pure joy that she would never forget.

Perhaps that is why, now that she must endure the procedure again, she feels no fear. When she watches me, a man in a fine suit, hairlike tufts of fur clinging to my shirt, she smiles wider still. Passersby stare in disbelief as the impeccably dressed gentleman is surrounded by six mixedbreed, surprisingly wellkept cats, each tugging a slender leash, their collective Miaow? echoing down the streeta sight not for the fainthearted.

The operationsimple, scheduled, an hour under anaesthetic, discharge the same day. And if you dont stop gnawing at everything, youll stay home next time! mutters a solemn man in the hospital courtyard, cradling a slightly nibbled yet still handsome bouquet of roses on his knee.

He checks his watch, readjusts the six colourful leashes, makes sure none have loosened, then looks toward the ward window where his wife awakens after surgery. Soon they will be allowed to visit, and he will finally be able to complain about the six tailwaving idlers who refuse to listen to him without her.

He will tell her how much he loves her, and will love her forever, even when she spends days in the cat sanctuary his company funded months ago.

A fool, perhaps, but each time he recalls the day her eyes first opened, he convinces himself that nothing in his life matters more than that very foolish love. And so, as long as it is not yet too late, he will keep striving to fulfill those fleeting, absurd whims that make her unbelievably happy.

Always, while it is still not too late.

Dad Is Better – Max, we need to talk. Olga nervously fiddled with the tablecloth, smoothing out imaginary creases. Her fingers shook, betraying the anxiety she tried to keep hidden beneath an even tone. Max sat opposite, glued to his phone, thumbs flying across the screen with exaggerated concentration. Intentional ignoring – his favourite weapon. – Son… I want to explain something important. No response. Only the clicking of his screen. Olga took a deep breath, bracing herself for words she’d put off for a week. – When your dad and I got divorced… it was six months before I introduced you to Simon. I didn’t rush, you see? I wanted to be sure it was serious. Max’s fingers froze above the screen. The teenager slowly looked up, his eyes burning with outrage so fierce Olga involuntarily drew back. – Serious? – he hissed through clenched teeth. – You think it’s serious with him, this random bloke? He’s not fit to lick Dad’s boots! Dad’s better than anyone! Memories of their first meeting flashed painfully before Max’s eyes. The tall stranger at their flat’s doorway, mum’s nervous smile, the smell of unfamiliar aftershave in the hall. An invader, boldly occupying the sacred place of his father. – He’s not a stranger, – Olga replied gently. – He’s my husband. – Your husband! – Max threw his phone onto the table. – But to me he’s nobody! My dad is Dad. And this guy… He didn’t finish, but the contempt in his voice said more than words. Simon tried, God, how he tried. He’d disappear to the garage in the evenings, hunched over Max’s battered bike. Hands covered in grease, brow damp with sweat, a stubborn smile on his lips – the face of a man determined to win, whatever the cost. – See, fixed the frame, – he’d say, wiping his hands. – You can ride tomorrow? No answer. Just icy, ringing silence. At night, Simon sat with the boy at his desk, explaining equations in simple words. – Look, if we move the x over here… – Yeah, I get it, – Max cut him off, though he clearly didn’t. Anything just to get rid of him. Every morning, the kitchen would fill with the scent of fresh pancakes with honey – Max’s favourite treat. Simon would stack them carefully on a plate, set them in front of his stepson. – Dad made them thinner, – Max would mutter, barely touching his food. – And he bought real honey. This stuff tastes rubbish. Every act of care crashed against a wall of frosty indifference. The teenager seemed to collect reasons for sharp jabs, turning every little thing into proof for comparison. – Dad never raised his voice. – Dad always knew what I liked. – Dad did everything right. Olga and Simon’s wedding shattered the fragile ceasefire. Max saw the marriage certificate as betrayal – final and irrevocable. Home became a minefield. Every morning began with tension, every evening ended with a slammed door. Max became a secret agent without realising. He logged every slip-up from his stepdad with the precision of a detective. A sharp word at dinner – recorded. An irritated sigh over homework – remembered. A weary “not now” after work – added to his bank of grudges. – Dad, he shouted at me again, – Max would whisper into the phone, locked in his room. – Really? – Andrew would tut with fake sympathy. – My poor boy. Remember when we used to go to the park every weekend, huh? – I remember… – That was a real family. Not like it is now. Andrew painted vivid pictures in Max’s stories, everyday spats becoming dramas of cruelty. He’d paint an idealised past: the sun brighter, the grass greener, and Dad never made mistakes. Simon felt like an unwelcome guest in his own home. Every glance from Max screamed: you don’t belong. You’re occupying someone else’s spot. You’ll never be part of the family. Fatigue built up, layer upon layer, pressing down with invisible weight. It all fell apart one ordinary evening at dinner. – You’ve got no right to tell me what to do! – Max exploded when Simon asked him to put his phone away. – You’re nothing to me! Do you hear? Nothing! Olga froze, fork in hand. Something snapped inside her. Her son stared at her husband with such hatred it thickened the air. – My dad’s better than you in every way. And you… you just… Dad says you ruin everything! I’d be better off with him! – That’s enough, – Olga said softly. – That’s enough. The next morning she dialled her ex-husband’s number. Her fingers trembled, but her resolve held strong. – Andrew, – she began evenly, – since you think you’re the better parent, take Max. For good. I won’t stand in the way. I’ll even pay child support. The silence stretched on for an eternity. – Well… you see… it’s just… – Andrew started rambling – work, business trips… I’d love to, but… He stalled, rustled some papers, coughed. – And, well, Natasha… my girlfriend… she’s not really ready for a kid at home. We’ve only just moved in together, still getting used to it… Pathetic excuses from the man who had turned his son against her new family. Who phoned every evening, whispered poisonous words, fanned every spark of discontent into a blaze. And now – a one-bed flat. Renovations. Natasha not ready. – I understand, Andrew, – Olga said coolly. – Thanks for being honest. She hung up before he could reply. That evening Olga called Max into the lounge. He flopped into an armchair, his usual defiant pose, but something in his mother’s eyes made him quieten. – Today I spoke with your father. The teenager tensed, leaned forward. – What did he say? Olga sat opposite him. – He’s not ready to take you. Not now, not ever. He has a new life, a new partner, and you’re not part of it. – You’re lying! You’re always lying! – Max spluttered. – Dad loves me! He said so himself… – Talking’s easy, – Olga said quietly, seriously. – But when I offered for him to have you, he remembered his renovations and his one-bed flat. Max opened his mouth, but found nothing to say. – Now listen carefully. – Olga leaned in. – No more comparisons. No more spy games, no more reports to Daddy, no more rudeness to Simon. Either we’re a family. All three of us. Or you go live with Dad, who doesn’t want you. I’ll work something out, I’ll make him take you. And then you’ll see for yourself what your father’s really like. Max sat frozen, wide pupils the only sign he’d heard every word. – Mum… – I’m not joking. – Olga looked at him with not a hint of a smile. – I love you more than life. But I won’t let you ruin my marriage. Your behaviour’s been awful. I tolerated it for ages. But no more. You choose. Max froze. The world, once so clear – good Dad vs evil stepdad – suddenly shattered. His father didn’t want him. Dad chose Natasha, and the new flat. Dad… just used him to spite his mum? The painful truth crept in. All the calls, the sympathy, the questions “what else did he do?” – it wasn’t care. It was a weapon. Andrew stockpiled ammo for his own petty revenge, and Max unwittingly supplied it. The teenager swallowed a lump in his throat. And Simon? That same Simon, who he’d tormented for months? Who stubbornly fixed his bike while Max purposely avoided the garage? Who got up early each morning to make pancakes? Who didn’t leave, didn’t give up, never stopped trying – despite everything… …Changing was hard. For weeks, Max hid in his room, avoiding Simon’s eyes. Too ashamed to admit he’d acted like a child. Every time he saw his stepdad, he remembered his own words – “you’re nobody to me” – and wanted the ground to swallow him up. Everyone tiptoed around. Conversations were careful, indirect. The house felt like intensive care, the patient hovering between life and death. The first step came with a physics assignment. Max spent two hours hunched over it, chewing his pencil, finally summoned the courage to admit defeat. – Simon… – the name stuck, almost choking him. – Can you help? I’m stuck on these vectors. His stepdad looked up from his laptop. No surprise, no triumph, just quiet acceptance. – Let’s have a look. A month later, they went fishing together. Sitting on the riverbank, watching their floats, Max suddenly started talking – about school, about mates, about the girl he liked from the next class. No brooding, no comparisons. Just talking. Simon listened, nodded, offered comments now and then. And Max understood: this was real family. Not in grand words about love, not in rose-tinted memories. In quiet breakfasts. In patience. In sticking around when the odds are stacked against you. The boy made his choice. The right one…

The Truth That Left Her Heart in Knots While hanging out fresh laundry in her backyard, Tanya overheard sniffles and peeked over the fence. Sat at the bottom, by her garden gate, was eight-year-old Sophie – her neighbour’s little girl, small and scrawny for her age, more like six than a second-year primary student. “Sophie, have they upset you again?” Tanya opened up the loose fence panel she kept for Sophie’s escape, and the child darted across as she so often did. “Mum kicked me out,” Sophie sobbed, wiping her eyes. “Said ‘get out’ and shoved me out the door. She and Uncle Colin are inside partying.” “Come in, love. Lizzie and Mike are having lunch, I’ll fix you a plate,” Tanya soothed, guiding Sophie inside. Tanya had rescued Sophie from her mother Anna’s rough hands more times than she could count – Anna’s temper made the girl’s life miserable, but living just across the fence let Tanya step in. She sheltered Sophie until Anna cooled down. Sophie envied Tanya’s kids, Lizzie and Mike – their home was warm, filled with gentle words and caring parents. Tanya and her husband were always kind; arguments were rare, hugs plentiful. Sophie visited as much as she could, desperate for the warmth and comfort. At home, everything was forbidden. Anna made Sophie haul water, scrub the shed, weed the vegetable patch, mop the floors. Anna had Sophie out of wedlock, and from the start, disliked her own child. When Sophie was younger, her gran – Anna’s mum – was still alive, bedridden but loving, a protector. But when Granny passed away just before Sophie turned seven, things got worse. Anna, bitter about life without a husband, spent her days searching for one. Anna worked cleaning at the lorry depot, surrounded by men. A new driver, Colin, arrived, and soon Anna moved him in. Colin – divorced, paying child support – gladly accepted Anna’s invitation, grateful for a roof over his head. Anna fawned over Colin, but her daughter got only chores, scolding, and sometimes a smack. “If you don’t obey, I’ll have you sent to foster care,” Anna threatened. Sophie, weak from overwork, got punished for failing to clean the shed, hiding by Tanya’s currant bush to cry, praying for rescue. She grew timid, withdrawn. Neighbours gossiped about Anna’s cruelty, living in a village where everyone knew everyone. Tanya spoke out, but Anna shot back, spreading rumours: “Don’t listen to that nosy Tanya! She wants my Colin, that’s why she lies about me.” Anna and Colin drank and partied often; those nights, Sophie escaped to Tanya’s, sometimes for the whole night. Tanya alone understood her pain. Years passed. Sophie did well in school. After Year 11, she longed to train as a nurse in the city. Anna said flatly, “No – you’re working now, grown-up. I won’t support you any longer.” Sophie ran from home, tears streaming, because home was no place for crying. She poured out her troubles to Tanya, whose own children studied in the city. Tanya finally confronted Anna. “Anna, you’re no mother – you’re heartless. Most parents do everything for their children; you just make Sophie miserable. You don’t love her, but it’s your duty, your conscience! She passed school with flying colours and you want her working in a dead end? She’s your daughter, Anna – some day you’ll regret this.” “Who are you to tell me how to run my family?” Anna exploded. “Look after your own, not my Sophie. She’s always whining to you!” “Wake up, Anna! Colin sent his son to school in the city, and he doesn’t even live with him! But you torment your girl. Are you really her mother?” Anna screamed, but collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted. “Yeah, I’m strict, maybe harsh – but it’s for her own good. I don’t want her to end up like me, with a kid born out of wedlock. Fine, let her go – let her train if she wants,” Anna relented. Sophie got into nursing college, delighted. Her clothes were shabby, but others from rural areas were dressed just as simply, so it didn’t matter. She visited home rarely. She dreaded going back, but holidays forced her to, always stopping in at Tanya’s first, where she was welcomed like family. Anna had new problems – Colin began seeing a younger woman. Anna raged endlessly; Sophie came home during one of these episodes, unwelcome. “What are you doing here? Just here to sponge off me? If you’ve got time off, go work.” One day, Colin appeared and packed his bags. “Where are you going? I won’t let you!” Anna shrieked. “Rita’s expecting my child. I’m not leaving him – unlike you, I care. Rita may bring home a new man someday, and he might hurt my son. No way. Your Sophie’s never felt a mother’s love, like you found her under a bush. My baby will have his mum and dad, and grow up loved. That’s what matters.” He left. His words devastated Anna. She couldn’t scream, beg, or cry. The truth hit – closing her mouth, her eyes, shutting everything inside. She couldn’t even sob. Sophie overheard it all. She didn’t comfort her mother. Memories flashed: every time she’d been yelled at, struck, thrown out for disturbing her stepfather’s peace. Colin never defended her, only watched with a smirk. In her last year, Sophie found work at a hospital to support herself. She stopped going home. Anna drank, her health failing, barely scraping by. Sophie blossomed into a lovely, hard-working young woman, kind to colleagues and patients. People praised her upbringing, assuming Anna had been a good mother. But Sophie kept quiet, smiling: “It’s all Aunt Tanya. I owe her everything – protection, understanding, kindness, and the career I love.” Anna’s new friends were drinking buddies, and every rare visit stunned Sophie with her mother’s decline. Anna had long been fired. Sophie wished she could throw those friends out, fix up the house, start fresh, mend things. But Anna wouldn’t change, sinking ever lower. Sophie held back tears and didn’t cry as she left for area hospital work after graduating top of her class. Arriving one last time, she found her mother alone and bitter. “What do you want? Staying long? There’s nothing to eat, fridge’s off. Give me money – my head hurts.” Sophie felt the lump in her throat, but held firm. “I’m not staying. I passed college with honours, moving to work at the regional hospital. I won’t visit often, but I’ll send a little money. Goodbye, Mum.” Whether Anna even registered Sophie’s words was unclear – her focus was drink, so she demanded cash. “Just give me money – don’t you care about your mother? What kind of daughter are you…?” Sophie quietly set some bills on the table, shut the door behind her, pausing, hoping Anna might chase after her, embrace her. She didn’t. Sophie drifted next door to Tanya’s. Tanya was thrilled, seating Sophie for lunch. “Come join us, Sophie! We’re just sitting down,” Tanya’s husband already at the table. “I almost forgot – here’s a present for passing with distinction – and a little cash to help you get started,” Tanya smiled. Sophie thanked her and broke down in tears. “Aunt Tanya, why? Why does Mum treat me like I’m nothing?” “Don’t cry, love,” Tanya comforted, “Don’t cry now… Anna’s just that way. Maybe you were born at the wrong time. But you’re clever and wonderful – you’ll find love and happiness, Sophie, I promise.” Sophie moved away to work as a surgical nurse in the city. She found love and married Oleg, a young doctor. At her wedding, it was Tanya at her side, beaming with pride. Anna boasted to bar room friends, “My daughter sends money, she’s grateful, I raised her right. Just a shame she didn’t invite me to her wedding or visit, I’ve never even met my son-in-law or grandkids.” Some time later, Tanya found Anna dead in her home – no one knew how long she’d lain there. Tanya realised something was wrong when the yard next door was silent. Sophie and her husband arranged the funeral, sold the house soon after, and visited Tanya and her family from time to time.