Better than family
Oh, Blythe, if youve nowhere to spend money, youd better help your brother. Its madness! Twelve hundred pounds for food! snapped the mother.
Blythe set her glass on the table, her lips pressed tightly together. The relatives pressed on her so relentlessly that she wanted nothing at allno birthday celebration, no conversation.
Margaret, stop squeezing the girl dry, the father tried to intervene. Are we celebrating something today?
Indeed we are, the mother sneered. And then my grandchildren will go back to the cramped council flat with the drunken neighbours, while I keep praying nothing terrible befalls them. If you, Blythe, had given those twelve hundred pounds to George, he could have rented a proper flat instead of a single room! And your cats could survive on simple fare and a cup of tea.
Mother, Blythe protested, I took those cats in myself because I wanted them. Im responsible for them. And George is a grown man, thirtyfive now; he must take responsibility for himself and for his family, which he started knowingly.
The grown man curled his lip in displeasure, slumped back on the settee and turned his back with a theatrical flourish.
And your family too! the mother shouted louder. Your brother, your nieces! As for street cats, take any you like. Weve fed ours all our lives with porridge and tinned fish and nothing else, and its been fine. Yet you treat yours like children! Fine, you dont want to have your own kids. Want to waste away alone in old age? Be my guest. But you cant keep pampering your cats while your own kin only see sweets on special occasions!
Blythes patience snapped. Years of slight, neglect, and the devaluation of her feelings burst forth with tears streaking her cheeks.
These cats are better than family, she blurted. They love me for nothing, ask for nothing. And theyll never reproach me for wanting to live my own life.
She could bear it no longer. Turning on her heel, Blythe fled to the bedroom and slammed the door with all her might.
Well see how they love you when you stop buying them trinkets! a voice followed her. The worlds turned upside down. Some cats more precious than parents
The mothers wails continued, but Blythe tried not to hear them. She collapsed onto the bed, pressed a pillow over her head, drowning out the protests. Her brother, as usual, dumped the mothers fury on her like heavy artillery and hid behind her skirt. That was how it always was.
Blythes childhood memories were hazy, as if someone had wiped away the painful spots. She did, however, remember her fifth birthday when Margaret baked a raspberry cake because George begged for it, despite Blythes request for a chocolate one with candles.
To my dearest man, the biggest slice! Margaret chirped, then looked at Blythe with a softened gaze. Youll have a smaller piece, dear. Girls must watch their figures from a young age.
Nothing extraordinary, yet George always got the best: toys, trips, gifts, and above all attention. Margarets eyes shone on him with adoration, hope, and gentle awe. Blythe, by contrast, seemed merely an appendage to her brother.
Father Arthur would sigh in those moments, could have offered a weak objection, but more often kept his mouth shut. He clung to the oldfashioned belief that women should tend to children and men should earn the bread.
When Blythe grew older, she spent most summers at the family cottage with Margaret. George spent his time gallivanting with his mates. When Margaret asked him to lend a handa rarityhe complained of a headache. Blythe could not pull the same trick. She was a girl, expected to help at home while George dealt with mens business.
Sometimes Arthur tried, belatedly, to intervene in the upbringing, but the moment had slipped away.
Blythe, are you trying to raise a domestic invalid? he whispered to Margaret when alone with his wife. Stop coddling him! A proper man should be able to wash his own socks, make his own bed, and cook at least for himself.
Is that so? I see you dont do any of that yourself, Margaret retorted. Let the boy live peacefully while hes with us. Hell have time to get a proper job later.
And then? He wont learn a thing in a snap of the fingers!
Then his wife will have to teach him.
And if she refuses to tend to a grown man like a child?
Then we dont need such a wife. Well look for a normal one.
The normal one appeared far too quickly. Blythe was not even sixteen when George brought home a girl with wide, naïve eyes. At first she spent evenings, then nights, and eventually stayed for good.
Blythe learned of this permanence when Margaret sat her down.
Darling, dont be angry, Margaret began without preamble, but the young need their own space. Youll stay in Georges room for a while, and he and Ellen will move in with you.
Blythe found the arrangement intolerable. Her room, her sanctuary, her books and posters They were being taken away. Georges room was spacious but communal; it afforded no privacy.
Mum, but its my room. Im used to it
Technically it isnt yours, its oursyours and fathersin the flat we share with George. Youre merely borrowing it temporarily. And stop dramatising. Theres a bed, theres a desk, what more do you want?
Blythe was speechless for a few heartbeats. From the outside it might have seemed reasonable, but the words declared that she owned nothing there. Her chance for solitude was slipping away too.
Blythe, dont touch the child, Arthur intervened. Let the young live as they will or leave if theyre unhappy. Theyll save for a flat sooner.
Do you want your son to sleep on the street? Margaret snapped. No! What if something happens to him? I wont forgive you!
Margaret painted the worst scenarios, and Arthur soon gave in to her pressure. That day Blythe finally shifted her belongings to another room.
As she feared, her private life evaporated. George mocked her posters, Margaret tried to peek at the letters she typed on her laptop, and the future sisterinlaw pilfered her cosmetics without asking. Conflicts were constant, and Blythe was always blamed. She felt a superfluous presence in her own family.
Soon Blythe fled to her grandmothers house. The old woman was blind in one eye and shuffled slowly, but caring for a kindly elderly lady felt better than being a mute piece of furniture in a home that never truly accepted her.
Grandma had been a veterinarian until retirement. She adored animals, always carried a sack of feed on walks, and let no one into the house.
I dont want them getting attached to me, she would say. And I dont want to become attached myself. I cant even afford my own medicines, and pets are a responsibility. Take them in, feed them, treat them, and love them, or dont take them at all.
They lived together, heart to heart, for almost ten years. To avoid burdening her, Blythe studied and worked simultaneously. Beside her grandmother she realised she too wanted to be a vet.
When her grandmother passed, the flat fell to Blythe. One would think she could finally be happy, but loneliness gnawed at her. Friends existed, but each was wrapped up in their own families and work. She longed for someone by her side, someone to hold. The word family had, in her mind, become synonymous with trouble. Animals were different. Thus two cats entered her home: Whisker and Rusty. Whisker had been rescued after being euthanised because, as a kitten, he couldnt stand on his hind legs. Blythe took him in. A year later she adopted Rusty, fearing Whisker would become bored alone.
Unfortunately the cats health was poor. One had kidney trouble, the other a stomach issue. Their specialist food was pricey, but Blythe shouldered the cost. The affection they returned made the expense seem trivial.
George, however, thought differently.
One day he brought a rat to her, saying the children wanted a pet. A hamster was rejected, and the rat seemed the cheapest option. No one considered proper care, and the creature fell ill. While Blythe was tending to the rodent and explaining that a cage should be three times its size, a courier arrived with cat food.
Thatll be £1,270, the courier announced as he hauled the bags in.
George raised an eyebrow and, once the door shut behind the courier, muttered,
Twelve hundred? Thats a third of my wages. Did they stuff gold in there?
By the way, George never saved enough for a flat. After his first child was born he moved with his family into a rented room on a council estate. Soon he had a second son.
Its veterinary feed, Blythe replied calmly. And its even on discount.
George shook his head but let the matter drop. Later, on Blythes birthday, the couriers visit turned into a small celebration of his own.
Now Blythe lay alone in the quiet. The relatives had gone, and truth be told, she felt a measure of relief. She never intended to spend the day with them, but defying tradition is never easy.
Whisker, sensing her mood, nudged her cheek with his damp nose and began to purr. Rusty followed, licking the clenched fist in her lap. Their soft vibrations gradually eased the tension. They could not speak, yet Blythe found in them the unconditional support her family never gave.
The telephone rang. It was Arthur.
Blythe, Im sorry it turned out this way he said, weary. You know, I never really understood the whole cat business. Its not my thing. But reaching into your purse isnt right either. Theyre not in the right.
His words were a thin bandage over a bruised wound. He didnt condemn her, nor did he excuse Margaret. Perhaps, had he been a bit more involved in family life, none of this would have happened. Still, Blythe was grateful for his attempt.
Later, another call came. It was her best friend, Kelsey.
Happy birthday, love! Howd you celebrate?
Silence answered, then a strained Thanks, Im okay. Kelsey knew her well enough to read between the lines.
Dont let it get you down. Ill be there in an hour, Kelsey promised, hanging up before Blythe could protest.
An hour later the flat erupted in chaos. Whisker and Rusty darted under the bed in terror as Kelsey, her husband Alan, and two more friends barged in shouting Happy Birthday!, bearing pizza boxes, bottles of wine, and, best of all, a massive, tiered cat tree.
For your whiskered mates, so they dont get bored, Kelsey declared.
The gathering felt like a draft of something far removed from the stale family script. Noise, laughter, embraces, ridiculous toasts Those people rescued her birthday. They accepted her as she was, unlike blood relatives.
The guests lingered well past midnight. Kelsey stayed to help clean up.
How do you feel? Better? she asked quietly.
Blythe smiled despite herself.
Better. Thank you. Youre the best.
Whisker napped on a cushion beneath the dining table, Rusty perched on a chair, and the new cat tree dominated the living room. Kelsey, who had to work the next day, washed dishes alongside her.
In that moment Blythe realised that family, when it works, is wonderful. But it hadnt worked for her. And that was fine. Because if the family youre born into fails you, you can always build your ownof those who purr at your side when you weep, of those who burst into your home at night knowing youre hurting. Such a family is stronger than any blood tie, for it is bound not by duty or guilt, but by love.
