“You care more about that cat than your own nephew!” Mum yelled.
Ever since I was little, I, Emily, dreamed of having my own cat. Finally, at 20, I got a kitten from a trusted breeder in a small town near Bristol. I named him Whiskers, and he became my best mate. I spent all my free time with him—looking after him, playing, making sure he was happy. He wasn’t just a pet—he was part of my heart, my comfort on rubbish days. My parents never outright objected, but they never got why he meant so much to me. “Should’ve had a baby instead of fussing over a cat,” Mum, Margaret, would scoff. Her words stung, but I stayed quiet, not wanting a row.
My older sister, Victoria, had a son, Oliver, and after that, babysitting duty kept falling to me. Truth is, I never felt that warm fuzzy bond with him. I helped out—made meals, did laundry, tidied up—but playing mum to a toddler just drained me. It felt like a chore, not a joy. When Victoria was knackered, Mum took Oliver. Me? I’d rush home to Whiskers. His purring, the way he curled up next to me, filled me with calm. One day, Mum snapped: “What, is that animal more important than your own sister’s child?”
I said, “Yes.” Because it was true. Whiskers was my light, while Oliver, sweet as he was, still felt like a stranger. Mum exploded. “How can you say that? He’s family!” Victoria just laughed, calling me mad. But I didn’t budge. Why force love for a kid I didn’t feel close to? Their reaction made me dig my heels in. I wouldn’t fake it just to please them.
Mum decided to punish me. Once, I stayed over at a mate’s place, and when I got back the next morning, Whiskers was gone. “He bolted—must’ve got spooked when the front door was left open,” Mum said flatly. My heart dropped. I sobbed, asked neighbours, put up posters—but he vanished. Losing him wrecked me. He was my little rock, the one who got me through lonely nights. Soon after, I moved in with my fiancé, James, in London. We adopted another kitten, but the ache for Whiskers never faded.
A few months later, I visited my hometown. My younger brother, Daniel, finally cracked and told the truth. Turns out, while I was gone, Mum and Victoria had “taught me a lesson.” They’d kicked Whiskers out because I dared say he mattered more than Oliver. Daniel had gone along with it at first but later realised they’d gone too far. Hearing that, I went numb. My own mum and sister had betrayed me, taken the one thing I loved—just to prove a point. To them, Whiskers was just a pet. To me? He was everything.
How couldn’t they see it? Whiskers was there through my darkest days. His warmth got me out of bed, kept me going. Oliver, bless him, was just a kid I babysat out of duty. Victoria clearly didn’t value me if she’d agreed to something so cruel. They’d wanted to “fix” me, force me to love Oliver like I loved Whiskers. And when I didn’t obey? They punished me by taking him. It wasn’t just betrayal—it was like losing a piece of myself.
I don’t know what happened to Whiskers. I hope someone kind found him, gave him a home. But that loss will always hurt. Mum and Victoria broke my trust. They showed how little they cared about my feelings. I won’t be part of their world anymore, where love’s about obligation, not the heart. Whiskers was my choice, my joy, and no one had the right to take him. Now, I’m building a life with James and our new kitten. And I swear—no one’s ever making me feel guilty for loving who I love again.
