The cat had always liked my husband, sure, but somewhere along the way, “liking” turned into clinging.

It started small: she’d curl on his lap during Zoom calls, paw at his shirt while he worked, or meow pitifully outside the bathroom if he dared to shower without her supervision. He’d laugh it off, scratch her head, and keep going.

But then… he adapted.
He built himself a standing desk so she could perch at chest level. He ordered one of those baby slings—yes, an actual baby sling—so he could “keep his arms free.” Now she rides around in it like a furry marsupial, swaying gently as he makes coffee, answers emails, or waters the plants.

It was cute. A little codependent, maybe. But still cute.
I’d roll my eyes, call him “the cat dad of the year,” and take pictures for Instagram.

Then last week, everything shifted.

I came home early and saw him at his desk, headphones on, the cat tucked snug against his chest. I almost tapped him on the shoulder to say hello—until I heard his voice.
Soft. Quiet. Like it was meant for no one else.

“You’re the only one who stayed,” he whispered.

He wasn’t talking to his meeting.
He wasn’t talking to me.
He was talking to her.

And in that moment, I understood.
This wasn’t just about a cat. This was about comfort, about loyalty, about having something warm and breathing in your arms when the rest of the world has felt cold.

And I realized—she hadn’t just stayed for him.
She’d stayed for us.