She Got Jealous… Of My Cat
I never imagined I’d find myself in such a ridiculous—if not downright silly—situation. My mum and I call each other every day, sometimes even twice: once in the morning and once in the evening. But for two whole days, she wouldn’t pick up—either ignoring my calls or sending them straight to voicemail. I was seriously worried. I was about to drive over to her place in Brighton, and then—miracle of miracles!—she finally answered, her voice frostier than a January morning in Manchester.
*”Yes, I’m listening.”*
*”Mum, where have you been? I’ve been beside myself! Two days of radio silence!”*
*”I’ve been busy. Especially for cat-related chatter,”* she snapped.
At first, I didn’t get it, but then the pieces fell into place. This was about our cat. For the past month, we’d been nursing Delilah—our black beauty, formally known as *”Lady Delilah Whiskerton III”*—back to health. It started with her feeling off, then escalated to vet visits, questionable diagnoses, injections, pills, IVs—and all for nothing. She only got worse. One clinic nearly finished her off.
Then, at the third practice, we found a proper vet—calm, thorough, and kind. Scans, tests, exams… He insisted on surgery. I was terrified of losing her, but I trusted him—thank goodness I did. The recovery was brutal: hand-feeding her, syringing water, camping on the floor to monitor her every twitch. But Delilah pulled through. Now she’s back to eating, purring, and curling up on our laps like nothing happened.
Right before Mum’s cold shoulder, I’d mentioned—offhand—how much the treatment cost. You can guess the numbers. Mum gasped, *”That’s half my pension! Have you lost the plot?”* The call ended awkwardly, but I brushed it off. Clearly, she hadn’t.
Finally, I caved. *”Mum… are you jealous of Delilah?”*
*”Don’t be daft! It’s just odd—you’ll spend hundreds on a cat but skimp on your own mother!”*
*”She was sick! Should I have put her down? That *would* have been cheaper.”*
*”That’s not what I meant,”* she muttered, deflating.
*”Listen, you know Simon and I would do anything for you. If you need something, just say. We’ll sort it. You’re *first*—Delilah’s just family too. We love you both.”*
Her voice thawed. *”I know… you do help. Thank you. I just don’t get spending that much on a pet.”*
*”Because we love her. And it’s not a competition. How about this: next time you need anything, *ring me*. Or I’ll turn up unannounced to rifle through your fridge and medicine cabinet.”*
*”Emily, *please* no spot-checks,”* she laughed. *”Sorry, I was being daft. Just come over—I miss you.”*
*”On my way. And those scones of yours better be fresh!”*
That evening, Simon and I popped round. Tea, scones, chatter—just like always. And quietly, I thanked my lucky stars for Mum: stubborn, sensitive, but utterly irreplaceable. Delilah’s fine now, too. Here’s hoping it stays that way.
