PALM: A TALE OF ONE UNINTENTIONAL FAMILY
That summer, I ran away. Just packed a suitcase, shut the door behind me, and walked out to my husband. I was twenty-two. As I left, Mum screamed after me:
“—Slut! And don’t even think of crawling back when you’re knocked up!”
I walked, gripping the suitcase handle, thinking, “Funny, you were the one who wanted grandchildren…” The suitcase, poor thing, had done nothing wrong, but Mum kicked it with her slipper as if it were the reason for her loneliness.
I pitied her—really, I did. But living with her was unbearable. I’d dreamed of leaving since I was sixteen. And now, the dream had come true. I’d become a traitor.
Mum had no one left to control, no one to lecture, no one to scold. She tried replacing me with the neighbours, but they turned out just as selfish—ate her food but never listened. Slammed doors. Walked out.
She fell ill. Her own special kind of ill—dramatic, manipulative, full of sighs. Threatening silences on phone calls, slammed receivers, the constant reek of smelling salts. I lived with guilt.
Then it hit me: she needed a new “child.” A new thing to infuriate her, to challenge her, to nurture, to make her feel needed. That’s when I told my husband:
“—Tomorrow, we’re going to the market. Buying Mum a cat.”
He nodded. His mouth was full of shepherd’s pie and beetroot salad, and arguing was impossible when you’d traded student noodles for home-cooked meals. He just chewed gratefully. I’d trained him, like Mum had trained me. The circle was complete.
Saturday morning, we went. The market hit us with the stink of manure, a riot of voices, sticky heat. I felt dizzy. At first, I blamed hunger—I was “sensibly” dieting, swapping meals for yoghurt. But then I knew: this wasn’t the yoghurt.
It was despair.
In cages, boxes, crates—need was for sale. Barking, mewling, screeching, squealing. Loneliness made flesh. It stared with pleading eyes, begging, praying. My head spun properly now.
Walking between rows, I thought, “Open the cages… scream, ‘Run! I’ll hold them off!’” But I didn’t. I trudged, weighed down by hundreds of doomed gazes.
“—Let’s go,” I told my husband.
“—No cat?” he frowned.
“—Fine, this one,” I jabbed at the nearest cage.
Inside sat a battle-scarred face, patchy and tired, with a look that said, “Whaddya want?” The seller said:
“—£700. That’s a Bengal.”
I didn’t know what a Bengal was. Maybe a breed, maybe an insult—like “Bloody nightmare!” We’d just started scraping together money. Saving for my winter coat. And now—£700 for a cat. A whole winter’s warmth in one purchase.
“—We’ll take it,” I blurted. Even surprised myself.
“—You mad?” my husband sighed. “Love’s meant to be free.”
“—Not all of it,” I shot back. “This one’s got papers!”
We argued. Then something darted under the stall. A kitten. Scrappy, half-bald, eyes like saucers. It leapt and latched onto my leg.
“—Whose is this?” I asked.
“—Nobody’s. Mangy stray. Chuck it out,” the seller shrugged.
My husband eyed the kitten and said:
“—That’s the mother-in-law special. Could survive hell itself.”
I looked at him. He nodded. No words needed.
The kitten curled in my hands, tucking its paws like a joke. Ragged, ridiculous, but… real. No papers, no pedigree. Just alive.
“—Straight to Mum’s?” my husband asked.
“—No. She needs baths. Medicine. Make her decent. Or Mum’s hallway wallpaper won’t survive.”
At home, we learned—it was a girl. A whirlwind. A tiny hurricane. By evening, she’d shredded my tights, coated my husband’s jumper in fur, peeled the wallpaper, and backflipped off the sofa.
We healed her. Bathed her, vet visits, flea collars. Named her—Palm. Because she fit in one. Just a scrap.
A week later, Palm owned the house. Alarm clock, comedian, therapist. Purred like a hoover when eating. Slept belly-up, legs splayed. Hid in laundry, ambushed us from under the bath.
Time came to take her to Mum. I texted: “Got a surprise for you.” We got ready… but couldn’t leave. My head ached—damn that yoghurt diet. Palm bounced around, chasing her shadow. She had plans.
“—You catch her,” my husband muttered. “I’m not helping you betray her.”
We drove. Sun blazed through the windscreen. Palm sprawled on her back, panting, begging for belly rubs.
“—Tell Mum she’s a British Shorthair. Bitey,” my husband grumbled.
I wasn’t laughing. He saw my face. We parked. Walked back inside. No words.
“—We’ll find Mum another one…”
Palm still lives with us. She’s eight now. Passport, birthday (the day we found her), toys, jabs, her own armchair. She taught us we could be good parents. Made us brave enough for kids.
Our scruffy miracle. No breed. No papers. No pretence.
Just soul. Real as life.
