Five days before Christmas, Lily received such a blow of hurt, disappointment, and humiliation that she barely pulled herself together—and only for the sake of the children, so as not to ruin the holidays for them.
Lately, Max had been voicing his irritation at everything. Nothing his wife did or their children said pleased him. His temper flared constantly, even nine-year-old Anton noticed.
“Mum,” he asked one evening, “why’s Dad so angry all the time?”
His little sister, Emily, a first-grader, might not have noticed, but Anton had picked up on the tension in the house.
“Don’t worry, love,” Lily murmured, holding him close and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s just work—he’s tired and stressed. I’ll talk to him.”
But she knew it wasn’t just work. Something had changed in Max. He was distracted, snapping at everyone—even the children, whose noisy play he’d once encouraged, wrestling with them until the whole flat shook with laughter.
That evening, when Anton and Emily raced through the flat, shrieking with excitement, Max’s voice cut through the noise like a knife.
“Stop tearing about like lunatics, or you’ll be punished!”
The children froze. Without a word, they vanished into their room and shut the door.
“Max,” Lily said quietly, “what’s wrong with you? You don’t have to shout at them.”
“Nothing,” he grunted.
“Don’t lie to me. You’ve been taking whatever’s bothering you out on us for weeks. What have we done?”
She hadn’t expected the blow that followed—hadn’t even wanted this conversation now. But it was too late.
Max stood abruptly, hesitated, then forced the words out.
“I didn’t want to tell you before Christmas, but since you’re pushing—”
“What?” Lily stared. “Tell me what?”
“To not ruin the holidays.”
“How could you possibly ruin them?”
“For God’s sake, Lily—” He exhaled sharply. “Fine. I’ve met someone else. I’m leaving.”
The words hit like a hammer.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not. I’ll see the kids on weekends. I’ll pay child support.”
She stood numb as he marched to their bedroom, hauled out a suitcase, and began stuffing clothes inside. The door slammed behind him moments later.
Lily had never understood women who seemed to collapse when their marriages ended—until now. The hurt, the humiliation, the way the future crumbled in an instant. But she had to hold herself together. For the children.
She was still sitting there, dazed, when Emily burst out of her room.
“Mum, where’s Dad gone?”
“He—he had to go away for a bit. Work.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart.”
Anton appeared then, frowning. “So we’re spending Christmas without him?”
Lily smiled, forcing brightness into her voice. “Just the three of us. But we’ll still have the tree, the presents—everything, love. It’ll be fine.”
She didn’t sleep that night. The shock, the betrayal—Max’s words about being in love—echoed in her mind, relentless.
By New Year’s Eve morning, she forced herself to move. Cook. Decorate. Pretend. She couldn’t let the children suspect anything was wrong. Cooking had always been her refuge—something she did well, something that soothed her.
She was halfway through baking a pie when Anton’s voice rang out from the hall.
“Mum! Come quick!”
She found him holding a tiny black kitten with a white star on its forehead—scruffy, wide-eyed. Emily beamed beside him.
“No.” Lily’s voice was firm.
“Please, Mum!” Emily whined.
“Absolutely not. Where did you even find it? It’s filthy.”
“If Dad let us keep it—” Anton started, but Lily cut him off.
“Dad isn’t here. Put it outside with some milk—it’ll be fine.”
“But it’s freezing!”
Lily stood her ground. The children sulked, retreating to their room in silence.
She told herself she wasn’t wrong. A kitten? Now? When her life had just imploded?
But then the doorbell rang.
Mrs. Whitaker, their neighbour, stood there with the kitten curled at her feet.
“He’s been sitting outside your door, Lily. Poor little thing. It’s a good sign, you know—a cat choosing your home before the new year.”
The children cheered, but Lily, unmoved, carried the kitten outside again.
“You’re mean,” Anton muttered.
By evening, the flat was too quiet. She peeked into the children’s room—and froze.
There, in the middle of the floor, sat the kitten. A wet patch spread beside it.
She shooed it out a third time.
Exhausted, she slumped onto the sofa. She hated this. Hated the cooking, the pretending, the children’s silent resentment. Hated New Year’s.
And then the doorbell rang again.
She flung the door open—ready to snap at Mrs. Whitaker—only to freeze.
Max stood there.
She exhaled sharply. “You said you wouldn’t tell them yet.”
“I can’t live without you,” he choked out. “Any of you. I was an idiot. I’m sorry.”
“DAD!” Anton barrelled into him, kitten in hand.
“Please, Dad,” Emily begged, “let us keep him!”
Max looked at Lily—really looked at her.
“Well… cats bring luck. What do you say?”
She rolled her eyes, hiding her smile as she turned away. “Fine. Do what you want.”
That night, they celebrated as a family. The tree glittered, presents were opened, laughter filled the air.
And in the children’s room, curled snugly on a blanket, the kitten—now named Shadow—slept soundly, warm at last.
