Today was her birthday. From dawn, calls flooded in, disrupting her morning routine—though the gestures warmed her heart.
Her daughter, Sophie, wished her well but reminded her to visit after work: cook, tutor the grandson, drop groceries at her in-laws’, then hurry home to make dinner for her husband, James. Only then might she unwind with a glass of wine, if exhaustion spared her. Such was life. Keeping everyone content was gift enough, wasn’t it? If they were happy, so was she.
Two cats—Whiskers, the elder, and Mittens, the spry one—watched her scramble. “We’re lucky,” Mittens purred. “Who’d pamper us like she does?”
Whiskers frowned. “But who pampers *her*? Forty-five, yet she looks sixty in those threadbare clothes. Not a soul lightens her load today.”
“Odd thoughts,” Mittens mused. “We’re fed, cuddled, free to nap anywhere. What more?”
“A debt,” Whiskers murmured. “One I owe.” Mittens blinked, uncomprehending.
*****
By morning, Whiskers had vanished. Emily trudged to work, heavy-hearted, yet duty called: babysit Sophie’s son, deliver groceries to Margaret and Henry, cook for James. The search would wait.
Dashing home through autumn puddles, an old man in dark glasses halted her. “Love, might you lend a hand?”
“Of course,” she said, guiding him to a bench. His grip tightened, pulling her down.
“I’m in a rush—”
“Whereto?” he pressed. Something about him—familiar yet elusive—made her confess.
“Your trainers squeak,” he noted.
“How’d you know?”
“Blind, not deaf.” He smirked, fingering her jacket. “Hand-me-down from Sophie?”
Emily flushed. “You see too much.”
“Birthday recently?”
“Yesterday.” The lie tumbled out: “James brought roses, Chanel perfume. His parents hosted a feast—Château Margaux, caviar. We danced till midnight…”
The man tilted his head. “I’ve known you long,” he said. “Come.”
She protested—chores awaited—but he marched her onward, vigor belying his age.
*****
They returned near midnight. Emily wore a designer dress, her hair styled at Harrods. A chauffeur had delivered her grocery bags.
“Thank you,” she whispered, kissing his cheek. “A friend of my parents, perhaps? Best birthday ever.”
His palm brushed her face—a gesture recalling Whiskers’ affection.
Home, her family gaped. “We called every hospital!” James cried.
“Celebrating with an old friend,” she said, turning—but the man was gone.
“Stunning,” murmured Sophie’s husband.
“Gallivanting with strangers?” Margaret sneered. “Where’d she get the money?”
“Spent it all on *you*,” Emily retorted. The in-laws stormed out.
“Tea, dear,” she told James. “I’ll shower. Danced all night.”
Bewildered, he obeyed—brewing tea, stacking groceries, even setting out chocolates.
*****
Whiskers lay lifeless in the wardrobe, a faint smile on his muzzle. Emily buried him beneath the oak outside. Returning, she glimpsed the old man by the bins—but he’d vanished. A tiny kitten mewed at her feet.
“Home we go,” she said, cradling him.
“I know,” he purred softly. “I know.”
