She got jealous… of my cat
I never imagined I’d end up in such an absurd, if not downright silly, situation. Mum and I call each other every day—sometimes even twice: morning and night. But for two days straight, she wouldn’t pick up. Either she’d dismiss the call or just leave it ringing. I was properly worried. I was ready to drive over—maybe something was wrong with her phone? James had bought her a new smartphone for Mother’s Day, but Mum’s never been great with gadgets.
Then—a miracle! She finally answered, but her tone was frosty, like I’d walked into a stern banker’s office:
*Yes, what is it?*
*Mum, where’ve you been? I’ve been beside myself! Couldn’t reach you for two days!*
*I didn’t have time to chat. Especially not about cats,* she clipped.
At first, I didn’t get it, but the pieces quickly fell into place. It was all about our cat. For the past month, we’d been nursing Delilah—our sleek black beauty, officially named *Lady Delilah of Windsor*—back to health. It started with her feeling poorly, then came the endless vet visits, misdiagnoses, injections, pills, treatments, IVs—all for nothing. She only got worse. One clinic nearly finished her off.
Then, at the third practice, we found a proper vet—experienced, calm, thorough. Ultrasounds, tests, exams… He insisted on surgery. I was terrified of losing her, but I trusted him—and thank God I did. We battled through a rough recovery: spoon-feeding her, syringing water, sleeping on the floor beside her. Slowly, Delilah bounced back. Now she’s eating on her own, using her tray, purring, and cuddling up like before.
Right before this whole row, I’d mentioned offhand to Mum how much the treatment cost. You know—numbers that make you wince. She gasped:
*That’s more than my pension! Have you lost the plot?!*
The call didn’t end in a fight, but it wasn’t warm either. I brushed it off—until now. Clearly, she’d stewed over it, and something in her mind just… snapped.
When she accused me of *cat obsession*, I cut straight to it:
*Mum… are you jealous of Delilah?*
*Don’t be daft! It’s just odd, spending more on a cat than your own mother!*
*She was ill, Mum! Was I supposed to put her down?! That’s cheaper than surgery, by the way…*
*That’s not what I meant,* she mumbled, less sure now.
*Listen, you know James and I will always help. If you need anything, just say. I’ll pop over, we’ll sort it. I’ll transfer money, buy whatever you need. You’re our priority, but Delilah… she’s family too. We love her.*
Mum softened. Her voice thawed, and the words I’d wanted came:
*I know… you do help. Thank you. I just don’t see how you can spend so much on an animal.*
*Because we love her. And don’t compare—it’s not a competition. We love you both. Promise me you’ll call if you need anything, or I’ll start turning up unannounced to inspect your fridge and medicine cabinet!*
*Oh, for heaven’s sake, no inspections!* Mum laughed. *Sorry, I was being daft. Just come over—I miss you.*
*On my way,* I smiled. *And don’t even think about skipping your famous scones!*
That evening, James and I drove over. Tea, scones, chatter, laughter—just like always. And I quietly thanked God for my mum: stubborn, prickly, but utterly mine. Delilah’s fine now, too. Here’s to more days like this.
