**A Hair on the Plate: How Arguments Over a Cat Destroyed Love**
“Edmund, I’m asking you for the last time! Drop it! You promised you wouldn’t speak poorly of my son again!” Margaret fought to keep her composure, but her voice trembled.
“I’m not speaking poorly—I’m telling the truth!” Edmund shot back. “He’s leeching off you, and you just dote on him. Can’t you see you’re raising a layabout?”
“I said it’s over!” Margaret near shouted. “My son is a student. While he studies, I’ll support him. I don’t need your permission!”
“So my opinion means nothing, then?” Edmund scoffed. “You’ll only listen to praise? No, darling, you’ll have to reckon with me!”
“I won’t!” Margaret snapped. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll walk out right now. Again! Two weeks ago, you swore we’d never discuss this. Forgotten already?”
“I remember!” Edmund barked. “But how can I stay silent when he behaves like this? You’d give him the shirt off your back, and he doesn’t even appreciate it!”
“Who told you he doesn’t?” Margaret’s hands shook with fury. “Timothy loves me and thanks me for everything. I said drop it! The conversation is over!”
She turned and stormed into the kitchen to steady herself. But Edmund, righteous anger blazing, followed.
“Margaret, won’t you even hear me out?” His voice turned pleading. “Haven’t I earned that much?”
“Raise a child first, then preach!” she shot back. “Your words are just the bitter mutterings of a jealous man!”
Edmund had a daughter from his first marriage, but he hadn’t seen her in eight years—her mother had moved to another town when she was just two.
“Jealous?” He gaped. “You think I envy your wastrel? What nonsense!”
“Of course you do!” Margaret sneered. “He’s only twenty, yet he has everything you lack!”
“Oh, Mum pays his rent and tops up his bank account daily—that’s worth envying?” Edmund mocked.
“Apparently so!” she retorted. “Why else would you harp on it?”
“I’m just saying you’ve spoiled him rotten!” he insisted.
“I can and I will! He’s my only son, and I’ll provide for him as I please!”
“Ah yes, because you’re rolling in money!” Edmund sneered.
The quarrel hadn’t even started over this. Margaret couldn’t fathom how they’d circled back to Timothy. It began peacefully—they’d been watching telly, an advert for a massage chair flashing across the screen. Edmund grew keen on buying one, even found a good deal.
Margaret didn’t object but reminded him,
“Let’s wait a bit. I asked to hold off on big expenses until my pay comes through. Might even need to borrow from you.”
She never asked Edmund for money. Delayed wages were rare, but this was one such time. Margaret worked remotely, leaving home only for errands. Days were spent typing away at her laptop, but the pay was decent—half again what Edmund earned. Not riches, but enough for rent, groceries, and helping Timothy.
“Margaret, don’t you think if money’s tight, someone ought to find a part-time job?” Edmund hinted.
“Timothy?” She frowned. “I’ve said no. I sent him to study, not to shout ‘Next customer, please!’”
“He’s a man! He should know money doesn’t grow on trees!”
“He knows well enough without you!”
“He knows nothing while you hand him everything on a silver platter!”
“That’s none of your concern! Enough—you’re unbearable!”
The row raged another half-hour before dwindling. Hoping to ease the tension, Margaret made tea and sandwiches.
“Here,” she said, sliding a plate toward him.
Edmund grimaced and pushed it away.
“Not hungry—” Then he spotted something. “Look! A cat hair on the plate! That blasted cat of yours! Why’s there always hair everywhere? Don’t you clean?”
“I clean twice a week! I can’t manage more!”
“You’re home all day! Is it so hard to grab a mop?”
“I’m not just sitting here—I work and earn more than you!”
Edmund paled. The thought of his woman outearning him already rankled; her scornful tone stoked the fire.
“So now I’m not man enough?” he hissed.
“I never said that! You provoked me! I’d love a spotless flat too—if someone else did the cleaning! It’s not just a woman’s job!”
“Did I say it was?”
“No, but how often have you cleaned since we moved in? Never! And it’s been six months!”
Edmund faltered, scrambling to recall a single instance. She was right—he’d left it all to her—but pride barred admission.
“Oh, how delicate we are! Sweeping floors is a heroic feat now! And I hardly make a mess!”
“Neither do I! But you expect me to scrub windows twice a week and mop daily! I warned you—that won’t happen!”
When Edmund suggested moving in, Margaret had been clear: twice-weekly cleaning, no more.
“I didn’t know your cat would shed everywhere!”
“It doesn’t! You’re hunting for hairs under a magnifier! And stop shouting—you’re scaring Whiskers!”
The tabby crouched under the sofa, wide-eyed.
“Oh, how delicate! Neither cat nor son can stand firm! One yowls all night, the other bleeds you dry without shame!”
“Back to Timothy? Maybe take a walk—clear your head!”
“I’m not leaving! This is my flat!”
“Yet we split the rent—or does that mean nothing?”
“I lived here first—it’s mine!”
“Then I’ll return to my son tomorrow!” Margaret fled to the bathroom and slammed the door.
“Go! Who’d want you at forty-three?” Edmund shouted after her.
Margaret couldn’t take his cruelty anymore. And it had all begun so sweetly…
Born in the village of Oakleigh, Margaret fell in love, married, had Timothy, and divorced six years later. Her ex-husband left for another city but paid child support until Timothy turned eighteen. Margaret raised him alone, without a degree, hoping he’d have a better life. When he got into university, she covered every expense.
That summer, they visited Brampton, where Timothy would study. No entrance exams—his grades secured his place. Margaret helped him settle, knowing how hard it was to adjust to city life after Oakleigh.
Timothy refused halls and convinced her to rent a flat. At first, he planned to share with mates, but then suggested,
“Mum, stay with me! The city’s brilliant—so much to do! Why stay in Oakleigh? You work remotely—we’ll be together!”
She agreed. Her son would be supervised, she’d have company, and their village home wasn’t going anywhere. Weekends were spent trying new cafés, watching films, even visiting the theatre—a first for both—where they met Edmund.
He’d sat beside them with a friend, enthralled by the play. Afterward, they all went for coffee, exchanging numbers. Soon came dates, then Edmund’s proposal to move in.
Margaret hesitated to leave Timothy, but living as three was awkward.
“Mum, I’ll manage! We’ll see each other loads!” he assured her.
She moved but visited weekly, cooking meals to last him. Sometimes she worried he was lonely, but he insisted he was fine—friends, studies, outings.
First year flew by. That summer, Timothy stocked shelves for pocket money. When term resumed, Margaret urged him to focus—subjects were tough.
All was smooth until Edmund fixated on Timothy. While her son worked, he hardly asked for cash, letting Margaret buy household gadgets. But with studies, expenses rose, and Edmund bristled.
After that first row, Margaret nearly left, but Edmund apologized, vowing never to repeat it. She believed him—he’d seemed sincere. But tonight, it flared anew.
She spent the night in the bathroom, curled on a towel with a sponge for a pillow. Whiskers woke her, scratching at the door—his litter tray was inside. She let him in and locked herself away again. By morning, Edmund was gone—off to work without even washing.
Margaret packed without a second thought, warning Timothy she was returning.
“That bad?” He frowned.
“Worse. I can’t live with him.”
“Alright, I’ve got lectures—see you tonight. Need help moving?”
“No, I’ll take a cab.”
She boxed up the blender, slow cooker, and new bedding she’d bought—they’d come in handy.
*”Who’d want you at forty-three…”* The words burned. So much spite in one evening…
Back home, unpacking, Margaret got a text from Edmund:
*Good morning.*The message remained unanswered, and as she sipped her tea beside Timothy, she knew some words, once spoken, could never be taken back.
