At first, I thought it was just a phase.
The cat would crawl onto his lap during Zoom calls. Sit on the keyboard while he typed. Meow outside the bathroom door if he dared try to shower alone.
So naturally, my husband adapted. Built a standing desk. Started wearing that ridiculous sling to “keep his arms free.” Now the cat rides around in it like a baby kangaroo while he answers emails or makes coffee.
It was cute. A little codependent—but cute.
But last week, I walked in on something I wasn’t supposed to hear.
He was standing at the desk, like usual, cat tucked securely in his makeshift wrap. Headphones on, talking into the mic for a meeting.
I was about to tap him on the shoulder when he said, softly, “You’re the only one who stayed.”
He wasn’t talking to the meeting.
He was whispering to the cat.
Later that evening, after dinner, I couldn’t get it out of my head.
I finally sat next to him on the couch and asked gently, “What did you mean when you said the cat was the only one who stayed?”
He looked startled, as if I had uncovered something he didn’t even realize was visible.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a sigh that sounded years heavy, he spoke.
“When my mom got sick, everyone disappeared. Friends stopped visiting. Family called less and less. When she passed, the house felt… hollow.”
His voice trembled. “You remember when we adopted Whiskers? It was two weeks after the funeral. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. But that tiny ball of fur climbed onto my chest and just… stayed.”
He looked down, stroking the cat now peacefully purring in his lap.
“I guess I never let go of that moment. It felt like… finally, someone wasn’t leaving.”
My heart broke. I’d always seen the cat as a quirky companion, not as my husband’s silent lifeline through grief.
I reached out, placing my hand over his.
“I’m not going anywhere either,” I whispered.
Tears welled in his eyes, and for the first time in months, he set the cat down and pulled me into his arms.
Whiskers purred between us, as if approving.
