I went to adopt one shelter cat, but the other one grabbed his brother so hard I couldn’t breathe.

That was the whole plan. One cat. One food bowl. One carrier. One small living thing to come home to after work.

I had been living alone for eight months by then, in a one-bedroom apartment with thin walls and a tired carpet that never looked clean no matter how much I vacuumed it. The kind of place where you could hear the upstairs toilet flush and still feel lonely enough to hear your own heartbeat at night.

After the divorce, I got careful about everything.

I bought cheaper coffee. I kept the heat lower than I wanted. I told myself that eating soup three nights in a row counted as being responsible, not sad. I also told myself I was doing fine.

That last part was the biggest lie.

A friend at work said I should get a cat. Not for company, she said. For rhythm. Something to feed in the morning. Something waiting at the door at night. Something that made home feels like home again.

She was probably right.

Still, I knew my limits. Rent was high. Groceries were worse. I wasn’t in a place to be generous with my heart or my money. So I made myself one simple rule.

Read more by clicking the (NEXT »») button below!