“Lucy, I think… I hit a cat…” I gasped into the phone, my voice trembling.
“And?” Lucy replied, her tone flat.
“What do you mean, ‘and’? What should I do?”
“At least get out of the car and see if it’s still alive.”
I swallowed hard. The street was empty, the night air thick with the metallic tang of fear. Slowly, I pushed the door open and leaned forward without stepping out, peering beneath the car. And there it wasalive. A small grey bundle, trembling, but its eyes were open.
“It’s alive, Lucy. It’s alive… What do I do?”
“What do you think? Take it to the vet. Youre headed there anyway. Just hurry!”
Carefully, I lifted the catit didnt resist, just lay there, breathing unevenly. I placed it on the back seat in an old shoebox that had been lying on the floor. Then I drove off.
The clinic was half an hour away. Usually. But not that day. That day, thirty minutes stretched into eternity.
There was already a dog in the boot. An old mongrel, hit by a train. My neighbours had asked me to take it in”Put it down humanely, dont let it suffer.” A stray, unwanted, 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 with the box in my arms as if rushing my wife to the maternity wardthe vet took it immediately and disappeared into the exam room.
“How is it? Will it be okay?” I paced outside the door.
“Well take an X-ray,” the nurse nodded. “Nothing seems too serious, but we need to be sure.”
Fifteen minutes. An eternity. The clock mocked me, dragging its hands. I circled the room, staring at the ceiling, the posters of British Shorthairs and Maine Coons.
Inside, something gnawed at me. Not just worryshame, guilt. I hadnt seen it. I shouldnt have been driving so fast. So many things couldve been different. Ittiny, helpless, stepping onto the road a second laterwhile I was distracted, wondering where the turn-off for the clinic was. That was all. A moment. A single click of fateand now I stood there, my throat tight, begging silently: *Just let it live. Let me fix this.*
Finally, the vet returned.
“It needs surgery.”
Then I rememberedthe dog was still in the car.
I rushed back. Silence. No whimpers, no movement. I pressed the button, and the boot slowly opened.
Two terrified eyes stared up at me from the dark. It was alive.
“Hey,” I whispered. “Sorry… well figure this out.”
Back inside, I caught the veta stern, no-nonsense woman.
“Theres a dog too. In the boot. Hit by a train, its hind legs… its bad.”
“We got a call about euthanasia,” she said. “They said it had no chance.”
I faltered, words failing me.
Her face remained impassive. She just grabbed a coat over her scrubs and followed me out.
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 had to be put down? Yes, its legs wont heal. But it can live. Weve handled worse. Bring it in.”
I nodded. No argument. The vet said, *it will live.* That was enough.
That evening, I stormed into the house. Lucy turned from the stove, startled.
“Whats wrong with you, Oliver?”
Without a word, I went to the bedroom and pulled out the old book where Id stashed money. A dream. A motorbike. None of it mattered now.
“Oliver?! Whats going on?”
“Theyre going to live!” I shouted. “Both of them!”
“Who? Have you lost your mind?”
“Ill explain!”
We kept them. The cat became Molly. The dog, Rex. Together, we survived it alldrips, sleepless nights, rehab.
Lucy just said, “If theyre with us, well manage.”
And she did. She fed Molly with love, tucked Rex in. We cried when Molly took her first steps. Laughed when Rex raced across the yard in his wheelchair.
Five years passed. Theyre not pets. Theyre family.
Today, when I got home, the smell of baking filled the air. Lucy hugged me from behind, tight. And she trembled.
“Whats wrong?” I turned to her.
“Were expanding…” she whispered, her hand resting on her stomach.
At first, I didnt understand. Then… I did.
Im forty. Shes thirty-seven. We tried for so long. Almost gave up. Almost. But once, a woman told her:
*”Youll have three children. Two from nature. Onefrom God. For kindness. For patience. The road will be hard, but bright.”*
Molly lay curled beside a plush rabbit on the windowsill. Rex, old now, shuffled over and leaned against my leg with a sigh.
I didnt believe it then. NowI do.
Because once, we said *”yes”* to life. And life said *”yes”* back.
