“Lucy, I think… I hit a cat,” I gasped into the phone, my voice trembling.
“And?” Lucy replied, her tone flat, unmoved.
“What do you mean, ‘and’? What should I do?”
“At least get out of the car and check if it’s still alive.”
I swallowed hard. The driveway was empty, the evening air thick with a metallic tanglike the scent of fear itself. Slowly, I pushed the door open and leaned forward without stepping out, peering under the car. And there it wasalive. A small grey bundle, quivering, but its eyes were open.
“Its alive, Lucy. Its alive… What do I do?”
“What do you mean? Take it to the clinic. Youre heading there anyway. Just hurry up!”
Carefully, I lifted the catit didnt resist, just lay there, breathing shallowly. I placed it on the back seat inside a shoebox that had been lying on the floor. Then I set off.
The vets was usually half an hour away. But not that day. That day, time stretched into eternity, the kind you never forget.
There was already a dog in the bootan old mongrel, hit by a train. The neighbours from our holiday cottage had asked me to take it in. “Have it put down humanely, dont let it suffer,” theyd said. A stray, unwanted by anyone, but we pitied it. I agreed without thinking.
And now this cat.
I sped down the road like a madman, one thought looping in my head: *What kind of day is this? What kind of life is this?*
At the clinic, to my surprise, there was no queue. I burst in clutching the box as if I were delivering my wife to maternitythe vet took it immediately and whisked it away.
“How is it? Will it be okay?” I hovered by the door.
“Well need an X-ray,” the nurse nodded. “Doesnt look serious, but we have to be sure.”
Fifteen minutes. An eternity. The clocks toyed with me, grinding to a halt. I paced, staring at the ceiling, the windows, the posters of British Shorthairs and Maine Coons.
And inside me, something gnawed. Not just worryshame, guilt. *I didnt see it. I shouldnt have been driving so fast.* So many things couldve been different. Itsmall, defenceless, stepping onto the road a second too lateme, distracted, wondering where the turnoff to the clinic was. And just like that. A moment. A fateful clickand there I stood, throat tight, pleading silently: *Just let it live. Let me fix this.*
Finally, the vet returned.
“Itll need surgery.”
Then I remembered*the dog was still in the car!*
I rushed back. Silence. No whimpers. No movement. I pressed the buttonthe boot slowly opened.
Two terrified eyes stared back from the dark. It was alive.
“Hey,” I murmured. “Sorry… well sort you out in a minute.”
Back to the clinic. I grabbed the veta stern, sharp-eyed woman.
“Theres a dog too. In the boot. Hit by a train, its hind legs… well”
“They called about euthanasia. Said it had no chance.”
I faltered. The womans face didnt change. She just grabbed a coat over her scrubs and followed me.
We opened the boot. She looked at the dog, then at me. Her gaze cut through me like an X-ray.
“Are you mad? Who said it needed putting down? Yes, its legs wont heal. But it can live. Weve saved worse. Bring it in.”
I nodded. Didnt argue. The vet had said, *Itll live.* That was enough.
That evening, I stormed into the house. Lucy turned from the stove, startled.
“Whats wrong with you, Oliver?”
Wordlessly, I went to the bedroom, pulled out the old book where Id stashed money between the pages. A dream. A motorbike. None of it mattered now.
“Oliver?! Whats happening?”
“Theyre going to live!” I shouted. “Both of them!”
“Who? Have you lost your mind?”
“Ill explain later!”
We kept them. The cat became Molly. The dog, Rex. We survived it all togetherIV drips, sleepless nights, rehab.
Lucy only said one thing then:
“If theyre staying, well make it work.”
And she did. She hand-fed Molly, tucked Rex in. We cried when Molly took her first steps. Laughed when Rex raced across the yard in his wheelchair.
Five years passed. They werent pets. They were family.
Today, when I got home, the smell of baking filled the air. Lucy hugged me from behind, tight. And trembled.
“Whats wrong?” I turned.
“Were expanding…” she whispered, her hand on her stomach.
At first, I didnt understand. ThenI did.
Im forty. Shes thirty-seven. We tried for so long. Almost gave up. Almost. But once, a strange woman told her:
“Youll have three children. Two from nature. Onefrom God. For your kindness. Your patience. The road will be hard, but bright.”
Molly lay curled beside a plush rabbit on the windowsill. Rex, old now, hobbled over, pressed against my leg, and sighed deeply.
Back then, I didnt believe it. NowI do.
Because once, we said *yes* to life. And life said *yes* back.
