**She Got Jealous of Me… Over a Cat**
I never imagined I’d find myself tangled in such an absurd, if not downright silly, situation. Mum and I call each other daily—sometimes even twice, morning and night. But for two days in a row, she wouldn’t pick up: either sending my calls to voicemail or ignoring them altogether. I grew seriously worried. I was about to drive to her house—what if something was wrong with her phone? Alexander had gifted her a new smartphone for Mother’s Day, but Mum and technology have never been the best of friends.
Then—a miracle! She finally answered, but her voice was icy, as if I’d walked into a stern bureaucrat’s office:
“Yes? What is it?”
“Mum, where have you been? I’ve been beside myself! Two days without a word!”
“I’ve been busy. Especially for chats about cats,” she clipped.
At first, I didn’t grasp it, but the puzzle pieces quickly fell into place. It was all about our cat. For the past month, we’d been nursing Delia back to health—our sleek black beauty, officially registered as “Adelaide von Delta Infinity,” if we’re being precise. It started with her feeling poorly, then the frantic visits to clinics, questionable diagnoses, endless injections, pills, procedures, IVs—all for nothing. Delia only worsened. One clinic nearly finished her off.
It wasn’t until the third vet that we found a proper doctor—calm, thorough, experienced. Ultrasounds, tests, exams… He insisted on surgery. I was terrified of losing her, but I trusted him—and rightly so. The recovery was gruelling: hand-feeding her with a spoon, syringe-feeding water, sleeping on the floor beside her in case she took a turn. But Delia, thank goodness, pulled through. Now she’s eating on her own, using her litter tray, purring, and curling up in our laps like before.
Before this whole row with Mum, I’d casually mentioned the vet bills during a call. Well, you can imagine—the sums were staggering. Mum gasped:
“That’s more than my pension! Are you mad?”
The call ended awkwardly, neither a fight nor warm. I sensed something off but brushed it aside. Mum, though, must’ve stewed over it until something in her mind snapped.
Hearing her accusations of “cat obsession,” I couldn’t hold back:
“Mum… are you jealous of Delia?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! It’s just odd—you spend more on a cat than your own mother!”
“But she was ill, Mum! Should I have put her down? That’d have been cheaper than surgery!”
“That’s not what I meant,” she muttered, less sure now.
“Listen, you know Alexander and I would help in a heartbeat. If you need anything, just say—I’ll come over, we’ll sort it. I’ll transfer money, buy whatever you need. You’re our priority. Delia’s just… family too. We love her.”
Mum softened. The frost in her voice thawed, and she finally said what I’d hoped:
“Well… you do help. Thank you. I just don’t understand spending so much on an animal.”
“Because we love her. It’s not a competition. We love you both. Let’s agree—tell me straight if you need anything. Or I’ll start turning up unannounced to inspect your fridge and medicine cabinet!”
“Lucy, spare me the interrogations,” Mum laughed. “Sorry, I was being daft. Just come over—I’ve missed you.”
“On my way,” I smiled. “And don’t even think of skipping your famous scones!”
That evening, Alexander and I visited. Tea, scones, chatter, laughter—everything back to normal. And I quietly thanked God for my mum: stubborn, sensitive, but so dearly loved. Delia’s fine now, too. May it stay that way.
