She was jealous of me… over a cat.
I never imagined I’d find myself in such an absurd, if not downright silly, predicament. Mum and I call each other daily—sometimes even twice, morning and night. But for two days straight, she wouldn’t pick up: either sending my calls to voicemail or ignoring them entirely. I grew frantic. I was about to drive over—maybe something was wrong with her phone? A new smartphone, mind you, gifted by Alfie on Mother’s Day, though Mum’s never been one for gadgets.
Then—a miracle! She answered, but her voice was frosty, like I’d been shuffled into some bureaucrat’s office.
*”Yes, I’m listening.”*
*”Mum, where have you been? I’ve been beside myself—two days without a word!”*
*”I’ve been busy. Especially for cat talk,”* she clipped.
At first, I didn’t understand, but the pieces fell into place quickly. It was about our cat. For a month, we’d been nursing Bella—our black beauty, officially *”Adelaide von Delta Infinity,”* if you please. It began with a little malaise, then spiraled: vet hopping, wild diagnoses, injections, pills, IVs—all for nothing. She only worsened. One clinic nearly finished her off.
Then, at the third place, we found a proper vet—calm, thorough, sure. Scans, tests, exams… He insisted on surgery. I was terrified. But I trusted him—and rightly so. The recovery was grueling: spoon-feeding her, syringing water, sleeping on the floor beside her to catch any distress. And Bella, thank heaven, pulled through. Now she’s eating on her own, using her tray, purring, curling up to us again like before.
Before this whole sulk, I’d mentioned to Mum, offhand, what the treatment cost. You know—hefty sums. She gasped:
*”That’s more than my pension! Have you lost your mind?”*
The call ended neither in a row nor warmth. I sensed something off but brushed it aside. Mum, though, must’ve stewed until something in her snapped.
Hearing her gripe about *”cat obsession,”* I cut to the chase:
*”Mum… are you jealous of Bella?”*
*”Don’t be ridiculous! It’s just odd—you spend more on a cat than your own mother!”*
*”But she was ill, Mum! Was I supposed to put her down? Cheaper than surgery, I suppose…”*
*”That’s not what I meant,”* she muttered, less sure now.
*”Listen, you know Alfie and I would help in a heartbeat. If you need anything, say so—I’ll come, we’ll sort it. I’ll transfer money, buy whatever you need. You’re first with us, always. Bella’s just… family too. We love her.”*
Mum softened. The ice thawed, and the words I’d longed for came:
*”Well… you do help. Thank you. I just don’t see how anyone spends that much on an animal.”*
*”Because we love her. And it’s not a competition. We love you both. Let’s agree—call me straight away if you need anything. Or I’ll turn up unannounced to inspect your fridge and medicine cabinet!”*
*”Oh, Lucy, no interrogations,”* Mum laughed. *”Sorry for being daft. Just come see me—I’ve missed you.”*
*”On my way,”* I smiled. *”And you’d better have baked those scones!”*
That evening, Alfie and I drove over. Tea, scones, chatter, laughter. Just like old times. And I thanked God silently—for my mum, alive, stubborn, prickly, but utterly mine. And Bella? She’s fine now. May it stay that way.
