**Cats, Men, and Daffodils…**
*”Can you believe it’s raining out there?”* said Lily, standing by the office window.
*”It’s spring—what do you expect?”* replied the ever-practical Natalie.
*”True, it is the first of March. Winter just dragged on forever. The only good thing about it was Christmas.”*
*”March is unpredictable—snow one day, frost the next,”* chimed in Vicky, the oldest of them at forty-five.
*”I slipped walking to the car this morning. Bruised my thigh something awful. Still hurts. Want to see?”* Lily turned from the window.
*”No thanks!”* the women chorused.
*”Emma’s not exactly thrilled about spring either. Look at her, working like a machine.”*
*”Leave her alone, Lily,”* Vicky cut in.
*”Fine, fine. Not the end of the world. I’ve been dumped three times; I’m still standing.”*
Lily caught Vicky’s disapproving look and stepped away from the window.
*”Seriously, though. The bloke left her. He didn’t die—he’s alive and happy. She should just move on.”*
Emma rose from her desk and walked out. No matter how much time passed, she couldn’t forget him—couldn’t make peace with it.
At first, Emma had focused on her studies—no time for boys. She thought she had years ahead for love, that there’d be plenty of men. But time flew. Friends married, divorced, married again, while she never had a serious relationship.
Then she met Daniel. She thought *this* was it—the real thing, the love she’d dreamed of. She fell so hard she couldn’t imagine life without him. The joy when he proposed—she’d glowed. They’d set the wedding date just before Christmas, so their photos would sparkle with festive lights. She’d promised to invite all the girls, even picked out her dress.
Then, in early December, Daniel vanished. A week of silence. When he returned, he looked lost, guilty. She knew before he spoke. He forced the words out.
Two and a half years ago—before he met her—he’d had a fling on a business trip. Maybe he’d made promises—he didn’t remember. Then he met Emma and forgot her. Until the call. A son. A year and a half old.
*”He’s the spitting image of me.”* Daniel dragged a hand through his hair. *”When I saw him, it… changed everything. It’s not like I still love *her*. But a child… I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”*
At first, Emma didn’t fight. Tried to believe love could conquer all. Then she realised—it wasn’t just the boy. You don’t keep a man with a child if his heart’s not in it.
Two happy years. Plans, dreams, a future. Then his past came calling, staking its claim. Even if he’d chosen her, she couldn’t live with the shadow—perpetual reminders, financial demands, shared attention.
So she let him go. But what now? Her future lay in ruins. How do you rebuild? And how do you trust men again? Every one seemed a liar now.
Work drowned the days. Nights were worse—memories gnawing at her heart.
Women fought for equality, yet without love, without children, they weren’t happy. Careers didn’t replace family. Life’s meaning was leaving something behind—raising it right, together. But Daniel already had that. And she was… excess.
Why her? Thirty-two, never married, never even *lived* with someone properly.
Lily was on her second husband. Vicky’s eldest was at uni. Even plump Natalie married last year. Only Emma stayed alone.
The girls tried setting her up with friends’ husbands’ mates. Nice blokes, successful—but no spark. One hoped for a fling; another wasn’t even divorced.
Then there was *that* spring holiday. Why the fuss over flowers? Gifts should come from the heart, not the calendar. At least it was a day off—no dodging smug men clutching daffodils, rubber-banded so they wouldn’t bloom too soon.
The wife waits, slaving over a roast. Dresses up, sits exhausted, watching those daffodils wilt in the warmth—just like her curls, styled hours ago. Her husband shovels food down, one eye on the telly. The son barely touches his plate before vanishing into his room, life lived online.
Yet Emma envied it. She’d take that in a heartbeat.
She studied her reflection. Not ugly. So why no happiness? People said she was too picky. But reckless love was for youth—when *”love in a cottage”* seemed enough, when mistakes could be undone.
At thirty-two, starting over felt impossible. And a man past thirty? If he had nothing to his name, how could he lead a family?
She splashed water on her face, patted dry. Smiled. *Thirty-two isn’t fifty.*
Back in the office, silence fell. *”Talking about me, then.”* She sat, got back to work.
*”Emma, we’re doing cake on the 8th—chipping in a tenner. Joining us?”*
She lied. *”Promised my mum I’d visit.”*
No such plans. Dad died four years ago; Mum had a new bloke.
*”Told you,”* Lily crowed.
*”Enough chatter—back to work,”* Vicky ordered.
The 8th dawned—frantic preparations. Women floated through the office, arranging potluck spreads. Work? Forget it. The smells were dizzying.
*”Emma, go home.”* Vicky slid a box of chocolates her way.
*”You don’t have to—”*
*”Take them. And don’t mind Lily—second marriage is rocky; she’s bitter.”*
Emma didn’t go home. She bought wine, fruit, prepared meats. No point cooking for one.
In the shop, she felt part of something—women crafting feasts to impress families. She grabbed extras, caught in the frenzy.
Outside, she cursed herself. *Why so much? No one’s waiting.* Puddles and ice made the walk hell. Her winter coat clung, damp with sweat.
Fumbling for keys, she barely heard the *meow*.
Exhausted, she ignored it. The lift crawled down, mocking her.
Another *meow*. A grey cat—well-kept, just muddy paws—gazed up with green eyes. She felt like Shrek—gruff outside, soft within.
*”I’m on the sixth floor. You?”*
It rubbed her leg, darted into the lift. Followed her to the door.
*”Cheeky. Or a girl? Explains it.”*
It waited politely. *”Well-trained, then.”*
Inside, it devoured the meat she offered, lapped milk. *”Greedy *and* bold. Staying, then? At least *someone’s* here.”*
She checked for a microchip—nothing. Posted flyers: *”Found: Grey tabby. Cheeky.”*
That night, wine in hand, the cat curled beside her. *”My little family.”* Bitter, but better than silence.
A knock. The cat’s owner—a man, with a boy.
*”This is Whiskers!”* the boy cried. The cat sauntered over, purring.
*”Mum said he ran away, but he *never*—”*
*”She *hates* cats,”* the man muttered.
Emma let them in. The boy clung to the cat.
*”If she throws him out again?”*
The man hesitated. *”Maybe… he stays here? You could visit.”*
Reluctantly, the boy agreed.
Later, the man returned with supplies—litter, toys, shampoo.
*”Your wife really kicked him out?”*
*”Sister. Her divorce… she’s staying with me till she buys a place.”*
Emma scoffed. *”Men always say that.”*
*”Someone hurt you bad.”*
*”None of your business. Go.”*
That evening, wine in hand, Whiskers beside her—another knock. The man, this time with roses.
*”For you. Not all men are prats. Just… too many.”*
She let him in. He spotted the wine. *”Drinking alone? Problem?”*
*”Hilarious.”*
*”Come out. Friends at the pub—live music. My mate’s on guitar.”*
She went. The music, the laughter—it’d been so long.
And when she caught his glances… she let herself hope.
Maybe good men *did* exist. Maybe Whiskers had waited for *her* for a reason.
**Lesson learned:** Life has a way of sending what you need—The next morning, as sunlight spilled through the curtains and Whiskers curled contentedly at her feet, Emma realised that sometimes, love finds you when you least expect it—not in grand gestures, but in quiet moments and second chances.
