My stepson needs money for college. My husband asked me, but I refused. I said, “My cat needs surgery, it’s urgent!” My husband just nodded and smiled.
Two days later, my cat went missing. My blood boiled when my husband sweetly said, “Your cat has been taken to the vet.”
I blinked. “What?”
He reached into his coat pocket and held out a receipt.
“I took him in yesterday. I figured, since you were so stressed, I’d take care of it myself.”
“Without telling me?”
“You were napping. And I thought it’d be a nice surprise.”
The words twisted in my chest.
My cat, Whiskers, had been sick for a week. He had trouble breathing, and the vet said he needed a small procedure to remove a blockage. I’d been scraping together money while my husband, Darren, kept asking about helping his son, Luke, with tuition.
Luke was 19, and we’d only been married for three years. I loved the boy, but he wasn’t mine. Still, I nodded slowly.
“So he’s okay?”
“He’s fine. Still at the clinic, but the vet said he’ll be ready to come home tomorrow.”
I wanted to be relieved. But something didn’t sit right.
Later that night, I called the vet clinic. They had no record of Whiskers being brought in. I didn’t say anything right away.
I just sat there on the couch, staring at Darren as he scrolled through his phone, totally at ease. “Hey,” I said casually. “Which clinic did you take Whiskers to?”
He looked up.
“The one on Elm.”
“They say he wasn’t there.”
His eyes flicked for just a second. “Maybe they didn’t update their system. I’ll call them tomorrow.”
I nodded and pretended to believe him.
But that night, I barely slept. The next morning, I went out early. I drove to three local clinics.
None had Whiskers. I came home to Darren making coffee like nothing had happened. I walked straight up to him.
“Where’s my cat?”
He paused, mug halfway to his mouth. “Told you, he’s at the vet.”
“No, he’s not. They’ve never seen him.
So I’ll ask again—where is my cat?”
His face twitched. Just once. Then he set the mug down and sighed.
“You’re really going to act like this? Over a cat?”
My stomach dropped. “Darren.”
He raised both hands.
“He’s fine. I gave him to a woman who fosters. Temporarily.
Until we sort things out.”
I felt cold. “You gave my cat away?”
“You were being unreasonable! Luke needs this chance.
I couldn’t just sit back and let him skip college while your cat gets a $2,000 surgery!”
I stepped back like I’d been slapped. “He’s not just a cat. He’s family.”
Darren shook his head, looking exasperated.
“He’s an animal. Luke is a person. He’s your stepson.”
“No,” I said.
“He’s your son. And Whiskers is my cat.”
That night, I packed a bag and stayed with my friend, Ruth. I needed space.
Not just from Darren, but from my own rage. Ruth handed me a glass of wine and rubbed my shoulder. “Want me to drive around tomorrow and help you look?”
I nodded.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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