**Cat Hair on the Plate: How a Fight Over a Pet Wrecked Their Love**
“David, I’m begging you—drop it! You swore you’d stop badmouthing my son!” Emily clenched her fists, her voice cracking.
“I’m not badmouthing him, just stating facts!” David shot back. “He’s leeching off you, and you just let him! Can’t you see you’re raising a lazy sod?”
“I said—conversation over!” Emily nearly shouted. “My son’s a student. While he’s studying, I’ll support him. I don’t need your permission!”
“So my opinion means nothing?” David snapped. “You only want to hear nice things, is that it? No, love—you *will* take me seriously!”
“No, I *won’t*!” Emily cut him off. “If you don’t shut up, I’m walking out right now. Again! Two weeks ago, you promised we’d never have this talk. Forgotten already?”
“Oh, I remember!” David barked. “But how am I supposed to stay quiet when he acts like this? You’d sell the shirt off your back for him, and he doesn’t even appreciate it!”
“Who said he doesn’t?” Emily trembled with rage. “Oliver loves me and *thanks* me for everything. Shut it—I mean it! We’re done talking!”
She spun on her heel and stormed into the kitchen, desperate to calm down. But David, fuelled by self-righteous anger, followed her.
“Emily, won’t you even *hear* me out?” His voice turned pleading. “I’ve earned that much!”
“Raise a child yourself first, then lecture me!” she fired back. “Your words are just bitter nonsense!”
David had a daughter from his first marriage, but he hadn’t seen her in eight years—her mum had moved to another city when the girl was barely two.
“Bitter?!” David scoffed. “You think I’m *jealous* of your layabout son? Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Of course you are!” Emily snapped. “He’s twenty and already has everything you *don’t*!”
“Oh, wow—Mummy pays his rent and tops up his bank account daily? That’s worth envying?” David sneered.
“Clearly, since you’re obsessed with it!” she shot back.
“I’m just trying to say you’ve spoiled him rotten!” he insisted.
“And I *will* keep spoiling him! He’s my only son, and I *can* afford it!”
“Yeah, because you’re *rolling* in it, aren’t you?” David rolled his eyes.
The argument hadn’t even started over Oliver. Emily couldn’t pinpoint how they’d circled back to him. It began innocently: they were watching telly, an ad for a massage chair popped up, and David got excited, finding a good deal online.
Emily didn’t object but reminded him,
“Let’s wait a bit, yeah? I asked to hold off big purchases until my salary comes through. Might need to borrow from you.”
She *never* asked David for money. Delays were rare, but this time, her remote job—editing reports from home—had held her pay. She earned nearly half again what David did, enough for rent, food, and helping Oliver.
“Emily, ever think if money’s tight, *someone* could get a part-time job?” David hinted.
“You mean Oliver?” She frowned. “I *told* you—no. I sent him to uni, not to shout ‘Next customer, please!’”
“He’s a grown man! Should understand money doesn’t grow on trees!”
“He *does* understand—without *your* input!”
“Understands nothing while you hand him everything on a plate!”
“*Not your business*! Just—stop! You’re driving me mad!” Emily yelled.
The row dragged on another half-hour before petering out. Trying to defuse things, Emily made tea and sandwiches.
“Here,” she said, nudging a plate toward him.
David grimaced and pushed it away. “Not hungry—” Then he froze. “Look! Cat hair on the *plate*! Your bloody cat drives me *nuts*! Why’s there *always* fur? Do you even *clean*?”
“I vacuum *twice* a week! More than that, I don’t have time!”
“You’re *home all day*! How hard is it to grab a mop?”
“I’m not *lounging*—I’m *working* and earning *more* than you!”
David went pale. Her higher pay gnawed at him, and her tone poured fuel on the fire.
“So now I’m not *man* enough?” he hissed.
“I never *said* that!” Emily snapped. “You *provoked* me! I’d *love* a spotless flat too—if someone else scrubbed it! Cleaning isn’t *just my job*!”
“Did I say it was?!”
“You *never* lift a finger! Six months living together, and *not once* have you cleaned!”
David paused, scrambling for an example. She was right—but he’d never admit it.
“Oh, poor you! Sweeping’s *such* a chore!” he mocked. “And *I* don’t make the mess!”
“Neither do *I*! But you expect me to *deep-clean* daily!”
When they’d moved in, Emily had been clear: cleaning twice a week, no more.
“I didn’t know your *cat* would shed everywhere!”
“It’s *not* everywhere! You’re *looking* for it! And *stop shouting*—you’re scaring Whiskers! Look, he’s under the sofa!”
The tabby peered out, terrified.
“Oh, how *tragic*!” David sneered. “Can’t raise a cat *or* a son! One yowls all night, the other bleeds you dry!”
“Bringing Oliver into it *again*? Maybe *take a walk*!”
“I’m not *leaving*! This is *my* flat!”
“Funny—we split the rent *evenly*!”
“I lived here *first*—it’s *mine*!”
“Then I’m *going back* to Oliver tomorrow!” Emily screamed, slamming the bathroom door.
“Go! Who’d want you at *forty-three* anyway?!” David spat.
Emily couldn’t take it anymore. And to think it all started so *perfectly*…
She’d grown up in a tiny Yorkshire village, married young, had Oliver, then divorced six years later. Her ex paid child support but moved away. She raised Oliver alone, scraping by on odd jobs—dreaming he’d have *more*. When he got into uni, she covered *everything*.
That summer, they’d gone to Manchester to settle him in. No entrance exams—his grades got him in. Emily wanted to help him adjust, knowing the city was overwhelming after their quiet village.
Oliver hated dorms and convinced her:
“Mum, *stay* with me! The city’s brilliant—so much to do! Why stay in that ghost town? You can work remote, and we’ll be together!”
She agreed—her son nearby, work unchanged. Weekends were café trips, cinema outings, even their first theatre visit.
That’s where they met David. He sat beside them, chuckling at the play. After, they all went for coffee, swapped numbers, and soon, they were dating. Months later, he asked her to move in.
Emily hesitated—leaving Oliver felt wrong. But he insisted:
“Mum, I’ll be *fine*! We’ll meet all the time!”
So she moved, visiting weekly to cook and stock his fridge. Sometimes, she worried he was lonely—but he swore he wasn’t: mates, studies, girls.
First year flew by. Oliver worked summer retail for pocket money, but when term started, Emily urged him to focus—his course was tough.
Then David started nitpicking. Pre-uni, Oliver barely asked for cash, and Emily splurged on gadgets. Now, with textbooks and rent, expenses grew—and David lost it.
After *that* fight, she nearly left—but he apologised, swore it’d never happen again. She believed him. Until *tonight*.
She slept in the bath, a towel as a pillow. Whiskers woke her, scratching at the door—his litter tray was inside. She let him in, locked herself again. By morning, David was gone—left for work unshowered.
Emily packed fast, texting Oliver she was coming back.
“That bad?” he asked.
“*Worse*,” she sighed.
“Need help moving?”
“Taxi’s fine.”
She boxed up the blender, slow cooker, and new bedsheets—might as well take them.
“*Who’d want you at forty-three*…” The words *burned*.
Back home, unpacking, David texted:
*Morning.*
“Not *kind*She blocked his number for good this time, knowing some wounds never heal.
