*Fur on the Plate: How a Quarrel Over a Cat Ruined Love*
“Oliver, I’m begging you—just drop it! You promised you wouldn’t speak badly about my son again!” Emily struggled to keep control, but her voice faltered.
“I’m not speaking badly—I’m being honest!” Oliver snapped. “He’s leeching off you, and you just coo over him. Can’t you see you’re raising a layabout?”
“I said it’s over!” Emily nearly shouted. “My son is a student. As long as he’s studying, I’ll support him. I don’t need your permission!”
“So my opinion means nothing?” Oliver fumed. “You’ll only listen to compliments? No, love, you’ll have to reckon with me!”
“No, I won’t!” Emily cut in. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll walk out right now—again! Two weeks ago, you swore we’d never argue about this. Forgotten already?”
“I remember!” Oliver barked. “But how can I stay silent when he behaves like this? You’d sell the shirt off your back for him, and he doesn’t even appreciate it!”
“Who told you he doesn’t?” Emily trembled with rage. “William loves me and thanks me for everything. I said enough! Conversation over!”
She turned and strode into the kitchen, hoping to calm down. But Oliver, righteous fury ablaze, followed.
“Emily, won’t you even hear me out?” His voice turned pleading. “I’ve earned that much, haven’t I?”
“Raise a child first, then preach!” she shot back. “Your words are just petty jealousy!”
Oliver had a daughter from his first marriage, but he hadn’t seen her in eight years—her mother had moved to another city when the girl was barely two.
“Jealousy?” He scoffed. “You think I envy your freeloader? Ridiculous!”
“Of course you do!” Emily flung at him. “He’s only twenty, and he has everything you never did!”
“What, mummy pays his rent and tops up his account daily? That’s worth envying?” Oliver sneered.
“Apparently, yes! Or why else would you go on about it?”
“I’m just saying you’ve spoiled him rotten!” he insisted.
“I want to, and I can! He’s my only son!”
“Oh, right—because you’re rolling in it!” Oliver scoffed.
The fight hadn’t even started over this. Emily couldn’t fathom how they’d circled back to William. It had all been so peaceful—they were watching telly when an ad for a massage chair played. Oliver got excited, found a good deal online.
Emily didn’t object but reminded him:
“Not right now. I asked to hold off on big spends till my pay comes through. Might even need to borrow from you.”
She never asked Oliver for money. Her salary usually arrived on time, but delays happened. She worked remotely, barely leaving the house except for errands. Whole days disappeared into her laptop—typing, checking, but the pay was decent, half again what Oliver earned. Not millions, but enough for rent, food, and helping William.
“Emily, don’t you think if money’s tight, someone ought to get a part-time job?” Oliver hinted.
“William?” She frowned. “I said no. I sent him to study, not shout ‘Next customer, please!’”
“He’s a grown man! Should understand money doesn’t grow on trees!”
“He knows that without your input!”
“Knows nothing while you spoon-feed him!”
“Not your business! Stop it—you’re driving me mad!”
The row simmered another half-hour before fading. Emily, trying to smooth things, made tea and sandwiches.
“Here,” she said, sliding a plate toward him.
Oliver grimaced, pushing it away. “Not hungry—” Then he froze. “Look! Fur on the plate! Your damn cat’s driving me mad! Why’s there always fur? Do you even clean?”
“I clean twice a week! Any more, I don’t have time!”
“You’re home all day! Can’t grab a mop?”
“I’m not ‘just home’—I’m working and earning more than you!”
Oliver paled. His woman outearning him already rankled; her scorn tipped him over.
“So I’m not a man now?” he hissed.
“I never said that! You’re winding me up! I’d love a sterile flat too if someone else cleaned! It’s not just women’s work!”
“Did I say it was?”
“Maybe not, but when’s the last time you lifted a finger here? Six months, Oliver! Not once!”
Oliver floundered. She was right—he’d left it all to her—but pride wouldn’t let him admit it.
“Oh, precious! Sweeping’s a heroic feat now? I don’t even make mess!”
“Neither do I! But you want me scrubbing floors twice a day, windows weekly—I told you I wouldn’t!”
When Oliver suggested moving in, Emily had been clear: cleaning twice a week, scheduled. The rest wasn’t her job.
“I didn’t know your cat would shed like a blizzard!”
“It’s not that bad! You’re hunting for strands under a magnifier! And stop shouting—you’re scaring Whiskers!”
The tabby cowered under the sofa, wide-eyed.
“Oh, how delicate!” Oliver snorted. “Can’t raise a cat or a son! One yowls at night, the other bleeds you dry without shame!”
“Back to William?” Emily exploded. “Maybe take a walk? Cool off!”
“I’m not leaving! This is my flat!”
“Even though we split the rent?”
“I lived here first—it’s mine!”
“Then I’m going back to my son tomorrow!” Emily stormed to the bathroom, slamming the door.
“Go on! Who’d want you at forty-three anyway!” Oliver shouted after her.
She couldn’t take his jabs anymore. And it had all begun so beautifully…
Emily was born in Oakwood, fell in love, married, had William, divorced after six years. Her ex-husband moved away but paid child support till William turned eighteen. She raised him alone—no degree, but dreaming he’d have better. When he got into uni, she covered it all.
That summer, they visited Chesterton, where William would study. No entrance exams—his grades got him in. Emily helped him settle, knowing how daunting the city felt after their village.
William refused halls and convinced her to rent a flat. At first, he planned to share with mates, then suggested:
“Mum, stay with me! The city’s brilliant—so much to do! Why rot in Oakwood? You can work remote, and we’ll be together!”
She agreed. Her boy nearby, life less lonely, the village house still theirs. Weekends were café trips, new films, even a play—their first, both enchanted.
At the theatre, they met Oliver. He sat nearby with a friend, thoroughly enjoying the show. After, they all went for coffee, swapped numbers. Dates followed; months later, Oliver proposed moving in.
Emily hesitated—leaving William felt wrong. But living as three seemed awkward. William reassured her:
“Mum, I’ll manage! We’ll meet loads!”
She moved out but visited weekly, cooking meals for him. Sometimes, she glimpsed loneliness in him, but he swore he was fine—friends, outings, studies.
First year flew. That summer, William stocked shelves for pocket money. When term started, Emily insisted he focus—subjects were tough.
All was smooth till Oliver started nitpicking. While William worked, he barely asked for cash, and Emily bought home gadgets. But once studies resumed, costs rose, and Oliver fixated.
After that first fight, she nearly left, but Oliver apologised, promised it wouldn’t happen again. He’d seemed sincere. But tonight, it all restarted.
Emily spent the night in the bath, towel for a pillow, sponge under her head. Whiskers woke her, clawing the door—his tray was inside. She let him in, locked herself away again. By morning, Oliver had left for work without even washing.
Without hesitation, she packed, warning William she was returning.
“That bad?” he asked, worried.
“Worse,” she sighed. “I can’t live with him.”
“Alright, I’ve got lectures—see you tonight. Need help moving?”
“Taxi’s fine,” she said.
She boxed the blender, slow cooker, new bedsheets—useful spares.
*Who’d want you at forty-three…* Oliver’s words scorched. So much venom in one night…
Back home unpacking, Oliver texted:
*Good morning.*
“It’s not,” she replied.
*Emily, sorry…*
“No.”
*I was wrong, I’m ashamed.*
“Not my problem. I left.”
*Where?*
“William’s.”
*Why? You said you loved meAnd as Emily settled into her new-old life with William and Whiskers, she realised some love stories end not with a bang, but with the quiet relief of a door finally closing behind you.
