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The town didn’t have a superhero, but we had Mrs. Virginia Jenkins, and honestly, that was better. She was an elderly woman who never had any kids of her own, but she sure loved the ones who lived in the neighborhood. Her husband had passed long before I was born, so she lived alone. Her house was in the middle of town, next door to mine, and filled with plants. She fed the stray cats that lived in the area, and any child that happened upon her door left with a full belly and a plate of cookies to take home to their parents.

Her kindness made people love her, but it was those cookies that made the magic happen.

Yes, they were truly magical.

I once heard my mom say, “Those cookies can make anything better” and it was true.

Living next door to Mrs. Jenkins meant that saw more than the other kids in my class. My bedroom window looked out onto her house. People would come to her house in tears, and after having a few of her cookies and some tea with her out in her garden, they left with a smile on their face. Every. Single. Time. Without fail, Mrs. Jenkins made their problems vanish into thin air.

I was only twelve so it wasn’t like I had any real problems, except the time Bethany Brooks decided she no longer liked me and tried to turn all my other friends against me. That was the first time I knocked on Mrs. Jenkins’ door with tears in my eyes.

“Oh dear Jessica, what is the matter? Come inside, I have a fresh batch of cookies coming out of the oven, tell me all about it.”

She sat me down with a glass of milk and the softest, warmest, sweetest chocolate chip cookies I’d ever tasted in my life.

“My best friend hates me,” I told her, tears running down my face. “And I don’t know why.”

“Oh sweetie, kids can be so cruel,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“And now Michelle and Katie are sitting with her at lunch and ignoring me too.”

“Here, take some cookies with you to school tomorrow,” she said, packing up about eight large cookies for me. “Share them with your friends and try talking to them, ask them if there’s anything you can do to repair your friendship.”

I listened to her and did just that.

Bethany initially laughed at me, but as soon as I pulled out the cookies, both Michelle and Katie’s eyes were wide. “Are those Mrs. Jenkins’ cookies?”

“They are, would you like some?”

Bethany was no longer laughing. Michelle and Katie nodded eagerly but looked over at their friend, as if seeking approval first. Bethany sighed, and after a few seconds said, “You can join us if you’d like.” She grabbed the largest cookie for herself.

Mrs. Jenkins’ cookies had worked! My mom had been right, they made everything better. I now understood the power of her cookies, and knew exactly why anyone who showed up at her doorstep could have their problems solved in an instant. Magic did exist, and it was baked right into the dough.

No one believed me, even with all the proof I had collected over the months. My rat Rudy and I would sit at my window every day after school and watch Mrs. Jenkins’ house. Some days, no one came by and it was a slow night. But most days, she’d get a visitor and I’d have a story to tell.

“That’s Mr. Grisham, he was diagnosed with cancer last year, and he visits frequently. He always leaves smiling, and mom says the chemo seems to have shrunk his cancer enough that he’s in remission. But we know it wasn’t the chemo, Rudy, it was the cookies… I just need to document my findings to prove it.” I started doing just that. I pulled out a composition notebook that I used to document everyone who came and went from Mrs. Jenkins’ place. Rudy was my witness.

I didn’t have much time for anything else, since I had very serious research to conduct and couldn’t miss someone coming or going. It started to impact my friendships at school, but I didn’t care. I had Rudy after all.

One day at school, Bethany asked me,“What are you doing this weekend, Jess?”

“Oh, I’m, err, umm doing some scientific research.

“Mr. Foster didn’t assign us any science homework this weekend.”

“I know, it’s my own research,” I said.

She scrunched up her face. My friends at school would never understand, but it was fine, Rudy understood the importance of my work, so instead of going to the pool with Bethany that weekend, I stayed at home with my rat and documented the people who came and went from the house next door.

Imagine my surprise when Bethany herself showed up at Mrs. Jenkins’ door with tears in her eyes.

“Hmph, and she always laughed when I told her that Mrs. Jenkins’ was magical,” I muttered to Rudy as I cuddled him close to my chest. “I guess she’s here to see for herself.”

I leaned in close to try and see into the window, and could barely make out their movements between the curtains. No doubt she was getting some cookies and milk, just like I did when I went for help. Bethany left the house about thirty minutes later with a pack of cookies tucked under her arm and a smile on her face.

“Even more proof, Rudy. Maybe she will finally believe me–”

The sound of the doorbell ringing had interrupted my thoughts. It couldn’t be, I thought to myself, looking back out the window. I hadn’t watched which direction Bethany had went when she left the house.

My mom’s voice called from behind the door, “Jess, you have company.”

She opened the door and there stood Bethany with her offering of cookies held out before her. Mom left the room and I just stared at my sometimes best friend, sometimes arch nemesis.

“What is this about? Weren’t you going to the pool with Katie and Michelle?”

“They canceled on me. They always do if you don’t come along,” she said. “But I don’t care. I miss you, Jess. I miss how we used to spend so much time together but it feels like something has changed.”

Something had changed. In both of us.

Bethany continued. “I know I’ve been mean to you recently, but it’s because I’m jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“Yes, I know that Michelle and Katie like you more than me, and now you’ve been spending less and less time with me so clearly you don’t want to be my friend anymore–”

I held up a hand to stop Bethany. “Wait, hold up… you saw Mrs. Jenkins because you wanted help with our friendship?”

Bethany nodded and held out the cookies. “She said to give you some cookies and to tell you how I felt, and that hopefully it would repair our friendship.”

Looking down at the cookies, I could never say no to one… but did I really want to have Mrs. Jenkins’ magic used on me? Then again, there was nothing to fix with our friendship. I wasn’t upset with her, I’d just been more interested in my research and didn’t realize my friends had missed me.

What harm could come from taking a cookie if there’s nothing that needs to be fixed, I thought.

“I’m sorry, Bethany. I didn’t realize you felt left out. I’ve just been busy with my own stuff.” I held the cookie to my lips, hesitant. Would it change me somehow? Would I feel the magic coursing through my body? The warmth of the freshly baked cookie was impossible to resist though, and I finally took a bite, savoring the sweetness for a moment before taking stock of how I felt.

I felt a tingle inside of my body starting at my toes. Just a little bit of a tingle, I had to really focus on it to feel it at all, but I convinced myself that I felt something. Even though I didn’t need the magic to help me remain friends with Bethany, it was still there. It comforted me knowing that I was right all along.

“Really? We can still be best friends, Jess?”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “As long as you don’t mind sharing with Rudy, that is. We’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

She laughed and wiped away the tears. “What a relief. I thought I would be the one sitting alone at the lunch table.” We sat down on the floor and ate a few more cookies as Ruby slept on my lap. He was sleeping more and more lately, I thought to myself. Normally he would be interested in stealing the cookies from us, he loved snacks. But I was keeping him awake and playing with him more than usual, that had to be it. I stroked his white fur as he slept.

As the days went by, I tried to spend less time on my research and more time with my friends, even as I was yearning to learn more about Mrs. Jenkins’ magic. I didn’t want my friends to be sad.

After a sleepover at Bethany’s house one weekend, I rushed home and was about to run up the stairs when my mom stopped me. The look on her face told me that something was wrong.

“What is it?” I asked.

Dad joined her and they shared a look. I didn’t like that look. Tears filled mom’s eyes. “Honey, we need to tell you something–”

“What is it? You’re not getting a divorce are you?”

“What? No, where did you–” They looked at each other again.

“Michelle’s parents are getting divorced.”

Dad lowered himself so he was at my level and took my hands in his. “Your mom and I aren’t getting a divorce, I promise you that.”

“Then what is it?” My heart pounded in my chest. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Mom’s voice cracked. “It’s Rudy, he–”

“He what?”

Mom couldn’t finish, dad had to take over. “He’s gone, sweetie.”

“Gone? What do you mean? Did he get out of the cage?” I pulled my hands free from dad’s and ran up the stairs to my room.

My parents were right behind me as I entered my bedroom. Rudy’s cage was missing from the corner. It was just empty space.

“Where is he?” Tears welled in my eyes. In my heart, I already knew. Rats didn’t live that long, my parents warned me when we got him the year before. He’d grown tired as of lately, but I chocked that up to spending more time with him.

“He’s gone, Jess,” dad said. “Your mom came up here to feed him this morning and he was…gone.”

Gone.

Just like that.

My best friend. My real best friend. I had spent so much time with Bethany, the girl who had made me sit alone at lunch, that I wasn’t even there for my real best friend.

Mom held out her arms to hug me, and I thought about falling into those arms as the tears filled my eyes.

“No, it can’t be. I have to fix this.” With fists balled up at my sides, I ran back down the stairs and out the front door. There was a downpour, but I didn’t care. My parents were behind me, calling out for me as I pushed open the gate to Mrs. Jenkins’ property.

She can bring him back. She can fix this. Her cookies can make anything better, that’s what mom said. I believed it completely.

I knocked on the door and it opened almost immediately.

“Jessica, are you okay? Come inside, you’re soaked to the bone, dear.” I noticed she waved at my parents before closing the door. Good, I didn’t want them here. They didn’t believe in her magic, not fully at least.

“Rudy…. Rudy….” I sobbed, feeling as my chest had been crushed. Talking was hard when I felt like I couldn’t even breathe.

“Who is Rudy, dear?”

“My pet rat. He’s… He’s…. Gone.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry to hear that. Let’s dry you off, and we can sit in front of the fire and have some cookies, and you can tell me all about him.”

She grabbed a towel and gently helped to dry my hair and face, wiping away the tears.

“I need you to fix it.” I sobbed. “I need you to make it better.”

“Fix what, sweetheart?”

“Rudy. I need you to bring him back. With your cookies.” I choked out the words.

“Oh, Jessica…”

“What? I know you can do it. I see the magic your cookies have on others. You made my friends forgive me, and you even helped repair my friendship with Bethany. And Mr. Grisham’s cancer–”

“Oh sweetie, I can’t bring Rudy back.” Her voice was low and solemn. “I would if I could. Trust me, I would love it if I had that kind of power–”

“But you do! With your cookies!”

Oh honey, my cookies are just that – cookies. There’s nothing magical about them.”

“Then how come you have people coming to your door sad or upset, and they leave with a smile on your face? How do you solve all of their problems?”

“Jess, dear, I don’t solve their problems,” she said softly, kneeling down to look me in the eyes. “Some problems, like with your Rudy, can’t be easily solved. But sometimes just talking about it with a friend over some delicious treats can momentarily make things easier to deal with.”

“But I want Rudy back.”

“Tell me all about him. He might be gone, but he will always live on through your memories and the stories you tell.”

She took my hand and led me into the living room. A fire was going.

“I’ll be right back,” she said as she slipped into the kitchen. She returned with a tray of cookies and two big glasses of milk. She sat them down on the table in front of us. “Go on.”

I took a cookie, but I looked at it closely. Was she telling the truth, were they really just cookies? I swore I had felt something when Bethany had given me one. Had I imagined it?

I took a bite. Part of me was expecting for Rudy to appear in front of me, and when he didn’t, the tears started to fall once more.

Mrs. Jenkins put her arm over my shoulder and hugged me close. “There, there,” she said. “I know it’s hard. It’s clear you loved him very, very much. He was lucky to have you.”

I took another bite.

And another.

“You can tell me all about him when you’re ready, Jessica. I’d love to hear all about him.”

I thought about Rudy and all the good times we had. He loved trying to steal food from me, and the way his whiskers twitched when he was getting chin scratches always made me smile. I started telling Mrs. Jenkins all about him.

And at some point after the second or third cookie, the tears stopped falling. “You’re know something, Mrs. Jenkins’, you’re wrong.”

“About what?” She cocked her head to the side with a confused expression.

“You and your cookies are magical. I’m starting to feel a little better already.”

It wasn’t every day that a pigeon delivered a love letter to the wrong address, but Emily Baxter had never been one to waste a good opportunity. She didn’t think anything of it when she initially saw the pigeon, but the tiny envelope in it’s beak caught her attention. Being an animal lover, and because curiosity got the best of her, Emily walked slowly toward the window. When she got closer, the bird dropped the envelope and fluttered away in the wind.

“What on earth?” she picked up the envelope. Beatrice was written on the front of it. Not that Emily thought she would be getting letters delivered by pigeon, but she was slightly disappointed that it wasn’t addressed to her.

It wasn’t properly sealed. Emily wondered if she should open it and read it. It felt weird to do that, but how could she make sure it got to the correct recipient if she didn’t read it? She slipped the paper from the envelope.

Dearest Beatrice,

It’s been years since I saw that beautiful smile of yours. Though, I guess in a way, I see it every day on the face of our son. He looks so much like you, it’s almost painful to look at him. I miss you, sweetheart. I feel like I’m just filling my days with nothingness, waiting to die, so that we can be together once more. Thirty years with you was not enough time. Even one hundred years wouldn’t have been enough time, not with you. You were my world. You were my everything. What I wouldn’t give to spend another afternoon at Jocelyn’s Pub, listening to you sing karaoke and watching all the men swoon over your voice. You were a gem, Bea.

I pray that we will see each other again one day.

Love,

Arthur

Emily’s cheeks were wet with fresh tears.

Oh, to be loved like that.

Emily tried to be grateful for the life she had. She had a nice, cozy home. A good job. A lot of friends. She was an independent woman who didn’t need a great love to feel complete, even if all her friends had been married off. Some of them more than once. Which served as a reminder that maybe she was better off staying single. Most marriages ended up in divorce anyway.

Still, a love like Arthur and Beatrice’s seemed special and rare, something anyone would be lucky to experience.

She put the letter back in the envelope.

She didn’t know what to do with the letter. Throwing it away seemed heartless.

Maybe she could return it to Arthur. He’d mentioned a pub, what was it called again? She opened the letter again and read it again. Jocelyn’s Pub. She pulled out her phone and Googled the name. It pulled up an address the next town over, a twenty minute drive at most.

Good thing I have nothing else to do today, Emily thought to herself with a smile. She’d been yearning for an adventure for some time, something to do rather than endlessly scroll Facebook all evening.

When she pulled into the pub’s driveway, her car was the only one there. It was the middle of the day, was the place even open? The sign out front advertised Shepherd’s Pie for a lunch special, so that looked promising.

The door dinged with a tiny bell as she entered, and the old woman at the counter smiled at her. “Welcome, dearie. Haven’t seen your face around here before, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thank you. You don’t happen to be Jocelyn, do you?”

“Sure am, what can I do for you?”

Emily slid onto a barstool across from the woman.

“Do you happen to know of a couple named Arthur and Beatrice?”

The woman’s face fell. “Ah yes, Art and Bea, they were two of my favorite customers. Bea and her singing, and Art and his pigeons. They were quite the pair, those two.”

“Pigeons? Did you say pigeons?”

“Yes…Art was part of the local carrier pigeon foundation. Last I heard, they were defunct, no one really has much of an interest in that hobby these days. Why do you ask?”

“A pigeon delivered this to me today.” Emily pulled out the letter and handed it to Jocelyn. “I’m trying to get it back to Arthur.”

Jocelyn’s smile from earlier had fallen and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Art hasn’t been back here in years. I lost touch with him after awhile, he stopped responding to my letters. He was never one for the phone.”

“Oh, do you know how I could reach him?”

“I can give you the last address I had for him, but that was from years ago.” Jocelyn wrote down an address.

Emily considered visiting in person, but decided that would be too weird. Besides, what if he no longer lived there? She went home and decided to write Art a good old-fashioned letter, including his letter to Bea with it.

Dear Arthur,

A funny thing happened today. A pigeon delivered this letter to my home, but clearly, it’s not meant for me. I wanted to return your letter and apologize for reading it. Beatrice sounds like a true gem, and I’m sorry for your loss. You two seemed to share something truly special. I got this address from Jocelyn at the pub, hopefully it’s still the right one, or at the very least the post office can still forward it to you. I want you to have your letter back and to tell you that your pigeon made my day by showing up on my window today.

I hope you and your son are well.

Sincerely,

Emily

Since she didn’t have any pigeon to deliver the letter, she had to settle for the post office instead. As the days went by, she couldn’t stop thinking of Art and Bea, wishing she knew more about their story.

Then one day, she came home from work to find a pigeon at her window, another letter in its beak. As soon as Emily got close, the pigeon dropped it and flew away.

This time, the envelope was addressed to her. She smiled as she opened it up and read the letter.

Dear Emily,

It has been years since anyone has written me. Which is my fault, I’m not that good at writing these days. I appreciate your letter, and for returning the letter I had written to Bea. Mirabelle, the last of my pigeons, must be getting restless, having not been put to work in years. She must have picked up on one of my old letters and took it upon herself to deliver it to someone. Looks like you were that lucky someone.

Thank you for your kind words. Bea would have liked you, I’m sure of it. Speaking of Jocelyn, you brought back so many memories and I’m going to reach back out to her as well. It’s been nice hearing from you, Emily.

Sincerely,

Arthur

A tiny note scribbled at the bottom of the letter caught Emily’s eye. It said: Feel free to write back anytime, your letter put a smile on my face.

Emily hurried inside and pulled out a sheet of paper and hastily started writing back to her new penpal.

The letter continued for some time. She would always hurry back inside and write back to Arthur right away. Through the letters, she learned more and more about them. Every letter was a new love story dedicated to his beloved Bea.

Emily learned about how they met in high school, they both worked at the same ice cream shop in town. Art auditioned for the musical just to be closer to her, but he was so off key that they asked him to do the lighting instead.

Art also loved to talk about his pigeons, a hobby he picked up from his dad. In the early days of their relationship, he would send Beatrice love letters by pigeon so their parents wouldn’t catch them.

Bea had always wanted kids, and the light of her life was their son, Nathan. But she was diagnosed with cancer only two years after his birth and passed away before he even started kindergarten.

Art never talked about himself, outside of his pigeons, of course. Even when Emily asked questions about his well-being, he just diverted the conversation to talking about Bea instead. It was easy to do when conversing by letter, she couldn’t really push the issue much.

Mirabelle’s appearance at her window was the highlight of Emily’s week, until one day, she didn’t show up. Emily waited another week, and still no sign of Mirabelle. She was starting to worry and considered driving over to the address Jocelyn had sent her, where she was sending the letters, but then Mirabelle showed back up again.

“I was worried,” she said as she approached the bird. The pigeon dropped the envelope but didn’t fly away. Emily reached a hand out to the bird and Mirabelle let her touch her head. “Sweet girl, I’m glad to see you again.”

She smiled as she read her name on the envelope, but that smile soon faltered when she realized there was another paper inside the envelope with the letter - an obituary.

Arthur James Franklin passed away on October 12th, 2024 at the age of 67 years old, to join his beloved Beatrice Anne Franklin (nee Cooper).

Emily’s hands were shaking as she turned to the letter enclosed.

Dear Emily,

This is Arthur’s son, Nate. Arthur passed away last week. I just wanted to let you know that your letters were the highlight of his days. He’d been hospitalized the last few months, struggling with his own battle with cancer. I know how much joy your letters brought to him because I was the one reading them to him every week, and I was the one writing his words to you. He loved telling me about my mother. Many of the stories I’d heard before, but knowing that dad was at the end of his life, it was nice to take that walk down memory lane with him.

Dad didn’t want a traditional funeral, but I am hosting a celebration of life for him at Jocelyn’s Pub if you’d like to attend. It will be held on October 20th at 5 pm. There will be karaoke.

Sincerely,

Nathan

Emily clutched the letter to her chest as she cried for a man she had never even met. Mirabelle was still at her window, and Emily wondered if the bird knew that her owner was gone. “I hope Nate is taking good care of you.” Mirabelle cooed in response before flying home.

*******

Emily showed up at the pub on the night of the celebration. She wasn’t sure what she was doing there, since she didn’t really know anything about Arthur. She’d only been talking to him for a few weeks. Still, her conversations with him had touched her soul and she felt obliged to show up and honor the man.

The first thing she noticed was the pub was still almost as empty at the day she arrived the first time. Her heart sank at seeing how few people came to celebrate Art’s life. A man around her age was chatting with Jocelyn and turned his gaze toward her when she entered. He smiled, and for some reason, she knew that was the smile Art had talked about in his letters. It was a beautiful smile.

She walked over to join them.

“You must be the infamous Emily,” the man said, reaching out a hand. “I’m Art’s son, Nate.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Nate,” she said, once again looking around the room.

“Yeah, I didn’t expect too many people. Sadly, most of dad’s old friends have passed on or are too sick to come tonight. One of the shortfalls of growing old, I suppose,” he said. “But the few remaining members of the courier pigeon society are still planning to come and pay their respects.”

Emily could see the sadness in Nate’s eyes and wanted to change the subject. “I heard there was karaoke?”

“Oh, are you a singer?”

“Ehh, probably nothing like your mother, but I belonged to the choir in high school, and I like singing along to the radio from time to time.”

Nate’s smile widened. “I’d love to hear you sing sometime, Emily. I bet you have a beautiful voice.”

As the night went on, a few more people showed up and Emily did get up and sing. She caught Nate watching her the entire time. Her cheeks flushed as she left the stage.

“Do you mind if I write you sometime, Emily?” Nate asked as they said their goodbyes.

“As long as you send it by pigeon,” she teased. “I think I’ll miss Mirabelle otherwise.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said as they parted ways.

The following week, Emily was returning home from work when she saw the familiar pigeon on her windowsill. Her insides felt warm and gooey for a second as she reached for the letter. Like last time, the bird didn’t fly away right away, and Emily patted Mirabelle on the head. The pigeon cooed a few times before flying off in the distance.

Emily opened the letter addressed to her.

Dearest Emily,

I hope you’re doing well. I haven’t stopped thinking of you since the night of my dad’s memorial. Your voice was beautiful, and I would love it if you joined me for karaoke night at Jocelyn’s in the future, I’d love to hear you sing again.

Oh and good news, Mirabelle will be getting some company. Dad would be proud, but I have decided to take up his hobby and continue his legacy. After all, I’ve leard that good things can, indeed, come from pigeons. If you’d like to visit them sometime, you’re more than welcome. I think Mirabelle has taken a liking to you, and she’s not the only one.

I hope to see you again soon.

Love,

Nate

The house was in need of repair, but it was in the middle of the forest and far away from other people. It was exactly what I needed. I couldn’t recall the last time someone had said my name, and I preferred it that way.

The boxes of photographs marked Jane’s Memories stayed unpacked and tucked under my bed. My walls remained blank. I told myself it was to make it easy to paint, but I hadn’t bought any paint in the three months that I had lived there.

My parents had left a sizable inheritance, enough money that I wouldn’t have to work for several years. There was a novel in my mind that was itching to be written, but the characters had grown silent since the accident. They too had left me.

Every night, as darkness fell over the forest, I’d sit out on the patio. You would think that I’d be surrounded in silence, but it was actually incredibly loud. The bullfrogs and crickets made me feel less alone.

One night, as I sipped the last of my tea- and cursing that I’d have to go into town the next day to buy some more - I caught sight of movement in the overgrown bushes next to the house. A moment later, a fluffy orange Maine coon emerged and stared back at me with the largest green eyes I’d ever seen.

Did the cat distribution system bless me?

I placed my cup down carefully, hoping that I wouldn’t scare the cat away.

“Psst psst,” I said softly, slowly lowering my hand toward the ground.

The cat continued to stare at me without moving. I stayed as still as possible, hoping that the cat would realize I wasn’t a threat. It had felt like so long since I’d had a cat, and I found myself hopeful that I’d just made a new friend.

“You look so much like Binx,” Tears welled up in my eyes, but I wiped them away. Binx had been my baby.

The cat must have decided I wasn’t a threat, because he - or she - scurried up the stairs toward me. A soft “merrr” sound came from the cat’s mouth. That’s when I noticed the collar. Reaching down, I grasped the little heart that I believed to be an identification tag.

“E. It just says E. Wonder what E stands for?”

The cat let out a little purr as she rubbed against my legs. For some reason, I decided this had to be a girl cat. Perhaps it was the heart tag or maybe just a feeling.

“Emerald, maybe?” The cat rubbed her cheek against my leg and stared up at me. “It would make sense with those beautiful eyes of yours. And even if it’s not, that’s what I’ll call you. Hi Emerald, I’m Jane.”

I scratched the top of her head and she really liked that. Her eyes closed as she leaned into my touch.

An unfamiliar twitch of my lips - was I smiling? It had been months since anything had made me smile.

“It’s hard not to smile when you’re in the presence of such a pretty kitty,” I said.

She reminded me so much of Binx, though her hair was much longer and fluffier. Binx also seemed to not have a single thought in her orange head, while this one seemed to look at me with some weight behind her eyes. No, this was a very smart cat, I could tell.

“I bet your family is missing you,” I said, remembering the tag. She belonged to someone, so the cat distribution system hadn’t delivered her to me. “Man, what I wouldn’t give to have a family that missed me.”

I spoke without even thinking about it. I couldn’t even recall the last time I spoke my thoughts out loud, I had avoided talking to everyone after the accident. I made small talk only when necessary to get through my day, and I kept all these thoughts and feelings tucked away.

Emerald looked up at me and let out a soft meow. It felt like she was listening and talking back to me. Besides, she was just a cat, not like she could tell the world my secrets.

I slipped from the chair down to the ground and she curled up beside me, her green eyes taking me in. I continued scratching her head as I talked.

“I used to have a family. They loved me. My mom sometimes got on my nerves because she wanted me to call her every other day when I went away to college, and I told her that I needed to live my life. But she was just worried about me….I wish I would have called her.”

My cheeks were wet before I even realized that I was crying.

“Merrr,” Emerald nuzzled her head against my hand.

“And of course my dad… He was always so much fun. He told the corniest dad jokes, and I used to roll my eyes. He just wanted to make me laugh though. I was their only child, they had hoped to have more but life hadn’t worked out that way. So no sisters or brothers for me. And now it’s just me.”

Emerald headbutted my hand so hard that it surprised me.

“Okay, well, right now I’m not alone, but you’re not my cat,” I said. The smile, it was returning. “I had a cat once, but she passed away seven months ago. Only two months before the accident. Fuck, life is so unfair, how can a person literally lose everything in just a few short months? At least if I had Binx… well, no matter, because I don’t.”

Emerald stood up, and at first I thought she might leave me, but instead she moved closer to my face and slammed her head into mine with the strongest headbutt I think I’d ever received. She continued purring as she stared into my eyes.

“It feels like you understand me, but I know that’s not possible. You’re just a cat.”

Emerald’s tail twitched back and forth as her body stiffened for a moment. I’m not sure if she heard a sound or if something had spooked her.

“It’s okay, sweet girl–”

Before I could say another word, the cat barreled down the stairs and into the darkness.

“That was nice while it lasted.”

I moved back up to the chair and reached for my tea. It was now cold. I placed it back down with a sigh. Even though Emerald had left in such a hurry, my heart felt a bit lighter.

For the first time in months, I slept without a single nightmare.

********

I stared at the blank wall before me. The wallpaper needed to be ripped away, and beneath it, it looked to be a blank slate. I pondered all the possibilities. My favorite color is purple, so maybe a purple accent wall? Hell, maybe paint the whole room purple, who says I can’t have a purple living room?

I thought back to the cat from the night before and smiled.

Maybe I should get a pet. Another cat? Maybe two?

I had a window that would make the perfect perch for a feline or two. It looked out into the woods, and I could put a bird feeder out there so they’d have some birds to watch too.

And in the corner, I could put my desk. The view was of the dirt road leading to my property and the large willow tree out front.

Yes, it was all coming together. This place was starting to feel like home.

I thought to the box of photographs under the bed, and my heart ached.

Not just yet, Jane. Not yet.

When I went into town to pick up some tea, I also stopped by the hardware store. A kind, older man helped me to pick out the paint, and as he was loading it into the car, I thought I would ask.

“Do you know if anyone owns an orange Maine coon?”

“Oh, you mean Evie? She’s, err, well, a bit of a local legend around these parts.”

It figured in a town of 1,000 people, everyone knew each other.

“Evie, so that’s what the E stands for.”

“Yep.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and didn’t say anything else. Strange considering he wouldn’t stop yapping my ear off earlier. “Well, let me know how the paint works out for ya and if you need some more.”

“Thanks, Bob,” I'd read the name off his shirt.

Evie. If I saw the cat again, now I knew what to call her. Bob hadn’t told me who she belonged to though. It was a small town, I’m sure I’d figure it out sooner or later, so I could tell her family what a sweet girl she was.

A legend, huh? I wonder what she was famous for.

If she came back for a visit, perhaps I’d ask her.

I chuckled at the thought.

Part of me was really hoping she would come back for a visit. That night, I sat outside again, a cup of tea in hand. I felt more relaxed as I listened to the sounds around me, but as the night went on, I started to think I wouldn’t see the orange cat again.

But just before midnight, she came hurrying up the stairs. This time, she had something in her mouth. She dropped a card at my feet before rubbing her head against my legs.

“Good evening, Evie! Yes, I know that’s your name, sweet girl. Sorry for calling you Emerald before.” I talked to her as if she understood me.

Her green eyes sparkled as she meowed at me, once again leaning into my hand for scratches.

“Thanks for visiting me again, though I do worry about wild animals in these woods. Perhaps you’d be safer if you stayed closer to home?”

She nudged the card with her nose, as if reminding me it was there.

“Oh yeah, what is this?” I picked up the card.

Weekly Group Meeting Every Wednesday at 7 PM. Come and meet people in a supportive environment. Times are tough for everyone, but we can help each other get through it. Hosted by the Pineville Library.

My pulse quickened. A tingle spread from my hands down my arms, as if the card held a silent magic that I had unknowingly summoned.

“Evie, how did you get this?”

Of course the cat couldn’t answer, not really. She meowed at me before turning on her tail and taking off into the darkness.

Weekly group meetings? With people?

A lump formed in my throat.

I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that.

I stared off into the distance, searching for Evie.

How did a cat know to give this to me? Was it a coincidence? It had to be, right?

There’s only one way to find out.

********

I kept pulling at my sweater. I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe?

It took everything in me to get out of my car and walk down the sidewalk toward the library.

Just go home, you don’t want to talk to people.

But talking to Evie helped

But she’s a cat and these are people.

It was easier to talk to a cat because she didn’t understand a word I said. She wouldn’t judge me for crying, or criticize me for not calling my mom back the day she died. She wouldn’t tell me how it was my fault that my parents were dead. Not that anyone had said those things to me before, but what if they did?

My legs were shaking as I ascended the ramp toward the building. Thankfully, I kept moving forward. I wanted to know how a cat could bring me a card, and maybe, just maybe, I was hoping to feel less alone in the world.

As I pushed open the door to the library, I found it mostly empty. Checking my watch, I thought maybe I was early, but instead, I was five minutes late.

I scanned the room and there didn’t appear to be any sign of a meeting taking place. My heart hammered in my chest. What if the card wasn’t real? How could I explain to the librarian that a cat had given me the card and just left?

Speaking of librarian, I noticed a women behind the counter. Her reddish blonde hair was pulled back into a braided bun. I was about to run for the door, to avoid having to talk with her, but I wasn’t fast enough. She turned around and saw me.

Her eyes.

Her emerald green eyes.

I couldn’t stop staring.

“Hi Jane,” she said. “The others are in the back, but I was waiting for you.”

“How do you–”

She smiled. I noticed the heart shaped necklace with the letter E engraved. My gaze lowered to the name at her desk.

Evie Sinclair.

“‘I’m so glad you came.”

(This is the start of a novel idea that came to mind recently. It will be the love story of Jane and Evie, the shapeshifting librarian. Hopefully I get the chance to write more in this world).

I always thought I had such nice breasts. They were one of my favorite body parts, and I tried to treat them well. So why the fuck were they trying to kill me?

And I’m not saying there’s ever a good time to be diagnosed with cancer, but my cancer couldn’t have picked a worse time. My husband and I had just agreed to start trying for a baby, something I have dreamed of ever since I was a little girl. I have always wanted to be a mother more than anything else in the world, and finally, at 38, I thought I was going to get my chance. I was preparing to get the IUD removed when I found the lump in my breast.

I cursed every deity I could think of. I cursed my body. Why must it be broken? I cursed all the choices I had made up to that point, everything that had delayed me having a child sooner. But that’s the thing with life, you have to deal with the cards you’re dealt. And in my case, instead of a baby, I got a tumor.

I can recite my diagnosis just as easily I can my name or birthdate - stage 1, grade 3, hormone positive, her2 negative invasive ductal carcinoma. To most of you, that means very little. To me, it felt like the end of my dreams. Especially the hormone positive part because standard treatment for that type of cancer involves kicking your body into early menopause and blocking any sources of estrogen, since my cancer used it as fuel to grow. Most people seem to think that cancer treatment ends after surgery, chemo and radiation, but that’s not true in my case. Most hormone therapy protocols last between five and ten years.

I didn’t have five to ten years, I was in my late 30s already.

Hormone therapy wasn’t the only beast I had to deal with, I had to take it one step at a time. Chemo has one job, and that’s to destroy cells. It targets cells that are dividing quickly, like cancer cells, but oocytes also fall into that category. There are medicines which may - or may not - help prevent the eggs to be damaged, but there’s simply not enough data to know for sure if it works.

I did it anyway. Why not?

I also did a quick egg retrieval prior to starting chemo, and we were able to freeze some eggs and embryos. They expected five or six eggs, but they were able to retrieve nineteen. Not all nineteen were able to be frozen, however, but it’s a good number. A hopeful number.

During all of this, my brain went to a very dark place. The girl who used to fear death more than anything else… well, faced with the possibility that I might never get to have kids and all the crushing weight of a life that didn’t feel like my own, I remember thinking, “Is my life worth living if I can’t have kids? Maybe I shouldn’t fight… Maybe I should give up.”

My brain apparently wanted to kill me too, but later, I found out that a common nausea medication given during chemo can cause severe drops in serotonin, so hopefully that explains those thoughts of self cancellation.

Though I worry there’s some truth to those fears. I’ve always struggled with taking life step-by-step. I’ve always wanted it to go exactly as I had planned, and those plans included having kids one day. The very notion that my life might take a different path made me anxious and uncomfortable.

Which is why I did everything I could to give myself some hope.

And there is hope. There’s a study that I have read backwards and forward and can literally quote like some folks can The Bible: The POSITIVE Trial, otherwise known by the much longer name Pregnancy Outcome and Safety of Interrupting Therapy for Women with Endocrine Responsive Breast Cancer.

They have studied a small group of women with stage 1 and 2 hormone positive cancers like mine and allowed them to have a break in their hormone therapy in order to try for a baby. The study shows that our risk of recurrence isn’t raised by taking that break, having a baby, then going back on the hormone therapy. Even IVF is deemed “safe’ for us.

I put safe in quotes for one big reason, however. It’s a small study and people will argue that not enough time has truly passed to be sure of the risks of having a baby. It’s only been five years. One difference between hormone positive cancers and some other types is that my risk of it coming back never goes away. In fact, the odds are greater that my cancer will come back AFTER five years rather than before. And to put it into layman’s terms, a recurrence means one of two things - either the cancer comes back in the breast (a local recurrence, less scary) or it comes back somewhere else in the body, or multiple places, in which case it’s stage 4. Once you have stage 4 breast cancer, that’s it. You will undergo treatment for the rest of your life. And while treatment has progressed tremendously over the last few years, many stage 4 breast cancer patients won’t survive beyond a few years. One day you could be fine, the next you get the results of a scan and find you have months to live. That’s the reality of what people like me live with everyday.

This is perhaps the biggest, scariest choice I’ve ever had to make.

In January 2024, I was allowed to stop my hormone therapy for my washout period (to get the medication out of my system before trying for a baby). In May, I had a PET scan, and thankfully, I’m still no evidence of disease. No sign that my cancer has come back. My oncologist, as well as several other oncologists because I like having second, third and fourth opinions, have told me that it is safe to do this. They have all given me to go-ahead to try for a baby. I am allowed two years off hormone therapy before I have to go back on it, so two years to hopefully make my dream true. Otherwise, all of this is for nothing.

Some people, if placed in my shoes, might tell me that I’m making a terrible choice and that it’s too risky. I know that in some ways I’m a guinea pig since so little is known about pregnancy after breast cancer still, but I’m not alone. There are thousands of us who are now being given the okay to do what was considered unthinkable before.

I’ve looked at the risks, read all the studies, asked my doctors every question I could think of, and I made my decision based on the scientific evidence we have today. My cancer was caught early, it hadn’t even spread to my lymph nodes. My risk of recurrence is low as it is, so they consider it safe for me to do this. Maybe they will say something different in ten years, but I’ve decided to trust in the science and will hopefully have my first embryo transfer in September. I know the road to pregnancy with IVF is a long one with no guarantees of success, but I can’t spend the rest of my life regretting not trying it. I never imagined that I'd be starting the path to motherhood in my 40s, but here we are.

Cancer steals so much from us already. If I spent my entire life living in fear of cancer, despite what current science says today, then did I really beat it? Or did I just merely survive?

No, I don't intend to merely survive, I'm going to live.

When I walked into that room for the first time, their little faces mirrored my own terrified expression. They didn’t know me, and I didn’t know what I was doing there. One little boy named Owen started screaming as soon as he looked at me. He had to be ushered from the room and comforted, I scared him that much. Truth be told, they scared me too, but I couldn't cry and be ushered from the room - I had a job to do.

The others stared at me with wide eyes.

What the hell are you doing, Kristen? You have no idea how to teach these kids.

I have teaching experience, don’t get me wrong. I was a substitute teacher for a bit back in Missouri, but that was over a decade ago, and those kids were older. I had recent experience teaching English to adults, but there was no comparison.

There were ten little ones there that day, all between the ages of two and three. Not a single one of them spoke English, they barely speak their own language at that age. One boy, Isaac, the tiniest of my students kept repeating “Maman et papa?” as he stared up at me with big eyes. My French is intermediate at best, and coming from the mouths of toddlers, it was even more difficult to understand them, but I could make out that he was asking for his parents. That was about all I could make out from any of them.

How am I going to communicate with them?!?.

The director of the school was with me that day, but she had other tasks to attend to like keeping Owen from screaming every time he looked at my face or I looked at him.

I knew nothing of how schooling is done here in France. I learned a lot of new words, such as doudou which made me laugh because to me, that’s slang for poop, but to these kids, it’s their lovie or stuffie . Doudous are serious business, as I learned after they were taken away by my assistant and I had a room full of heartbroken toddlers.

The kids were expected to eat off real plates with real silverware. When my assistant served them beets for their starter, I laughed to myself. No toddler is going to eat beets. They surprised me, every one of them ate their beets. In France, they serve several courses including a starter, main course and a dessert which is usually fruit or yogurt. Then they have gouter later, before going home, which is a snack their parents pack for them.

This was all new to me. I loved this age group, but I had never been in charge of ten toddlers at once. When they weren't eating, it was hard to keep their attention for long.

Matthew was constantly screaming because he just wanted to build a perfectly square tower out of the Legos and the other kids kept knocking it down or stealing them.

Amelia constantly wanted my attention and was running in the classroom and literally trying to climb the walls.

Nicholas was calling for me from the bathroom as Lenore was once again stealing Matthew’s Legos and making him scream.

Ella was mad that it wasn’t time for gouter and letting everyone in the building know about it.

I felt like the entire world could hear my classroom, and that they were judging me for it.

That first day was rough, I’m not going to lie. It was a long day, and I had to walk home in the rain, which only made things more miserable. Everything on me hurt and I couldn't move that evening, I plopped on the couch, ate dinner and could barely keep my eyes open.

I told my husband, “I don’t think I can do this. This is the hardest job I’ve ever had. The kids don’t understand me, so I can’t teach them. I have no idea how to get through to them, they just run around and cry and I feel like I’m being pulled in a hundred directions.”

But then I remembered Eloise, a taller-than-average three year old with light blonde hair and big blue eyes. I was warned that Eloise was difficult. Yet, I didn’t find her difficult. Yes, she cried a lot, but she's three and missing her parents, she had some big feels. But she loved hugs and her doudou. She didn’t speak English, but she actually understood some of what I was saying. I’d speak to her in English and she could answer me in French, usually a simple “Oui” or “Non”. She sat near me when I was on the floor, and she started smiling and laughing. Everyone was surprised - Eloise is happy? She’s always crying. Not with me.

And I also remembered when we joined the other classroom for songs at the end of the day, Matthew and Ella both had to stand right next to me, leaning into me, cuddling against me.

They’re so precious.

I decided to not give up that easily.

On my second day, I had a real, legit assistant. She didn’t speak English, but she was good at her job. Owen screamed as soon as he saw my face, but my assistant calmed him down. By the middle of the day, Owen was fine as long as I didn’t look directly at him or touch him or even come within arms length of him. We could be in the same room together. That was an improvement.

But something changed after naptime. Amelia rushed over and hugged me. She was happy to see me. Amelia is always happy to see me, unlike Owen, she wants to be near me always.

But then Owen saw this and ran over and hugged me too. He hugged me! Amelia hugged me again, so Owen hugged me a second time! I couldn’t believe it. He went from screaming every time he saw me to hugging me, within a matter of hours. It was a miracle.

That day was hard, but an improvement on the first. I came home with stories of the kids, smiling as I recounted my day but still exclaiming, “This is hard, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

I was learning right alongside them. Everything I knew about teaching was thrown out the window, and I had to figure it out as I went along.

On the third day, we were joining another class for morning activities, and Owen refused to go into the room. He screamed every time he looked at the other teacher’s face.

I knelt down next to him and said, “Rester avec moi?” I’m not even sure it's correct French, but I was telling him that he could stay with me. He nodded his head and took my hand in his, and together we walked into the classroom. He got a special seat right next to me, so we could face the scary new teacher together.

He likes me, I thought to myself in surprise. No, more importantly, he trusts me.

As the weeks went on, I got to know each of the kids.

When Lenore arrived in the morning, she would always be sleepy so I gave her a cushion to lie down in a quiet corner.

Eloise loves bunnies so as soon as she walked in, I would hand her the bunny toy and she would instantly smile. As long as she had that bunny, she was a happy camper.

Amelia ran and climbed the walls because she wanted all of my attention. I gave it to her in other ways instead of scolding her. I learned she really liked The Lion King, and we'd sing I Just Can't Wait to be King together. She taught me how to sing parts of it in French.

Matthew liked to pick on Ella because he was jealous if she wanted to play with other kids. He’d get super frustrated and scream and throw things. One day when he was clearly more frustrated than usual, I asked him, in English, what was wrong. He told me in French that he missed his mom.

“You’ll see her soon, I promise.” And I asked if he’d like a hug.

Through his tears, he nodded and fell into my arms.

He went back to playing with his Legos and before long, Ella joined him and they played well together. He just needed a friend. He needed kindness instead of scolding.

Isaac and Emmanuel knew each other outside of school, and Isaac learned how to tell me, “C’est Emmanuel!” while pointing to him. I asked, “Is he your friend?” and Isaac, my sweetest, happiest student, smiled widely and said, “Oui!” We'd have this same conversation every few minutes, but at least he was saying more than just "Maman et papa?" More importantly, we understood each other at last.

Emmanuel had been so quiet the first few classes, but by the third class, he started responding to me in English. He was pretty advanced for one of my younger students, and he started showing off. He’d bring me things and tell me the word in English with a proud grin on his face. Before long, Isaac was also bringing me fire engines and cars and telling me the words in English. They both loved hearing “Good job!” Emmanuel brought over the toy bus and showed me the wipers, moving them back and forth and said, “Swish, swish, swish,” a reference to the line in The Wheels on the Bus.

Oh. My. God.

He’s amazing.

They’re all amazing.

I still felt like I had no idea what I was doing, but everyone around me told me, “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.” This was new for me. I’m so used to struggling at jobs, being told that I’m not doing things right. It comes with the territory when you’re neurodivergent, and it has led to a lot of anxiety in my life. I never feel like what I’m doing is good enough. I never feel like I'm good enough.

The director told me that she recently talked to all the parents. “They love you,” she told me. “The kids love you.”

But how? I have no idea what I’m doing.

I often feel like since I can't be like Ms. Rachel or like the other teachers at the school, that I can't be a good teacher. I’m not overly cheerful or silly. I’m more calm and laid back. I'm positive and encouraging, but silly? Not overly so.

Then one day I was talking to a friend about my anxieties and she pointed out to me, “You don’t have to be like Ms. Rachel, or anyone else. You just have to be you and if it works, it works."

Does it work though? I have asked myself that question a lot.

When the director asked me if I would be coming back for the new school year, I wasn’t sure at first.

One of these days, they’re going to see how much of a failure you really are… And then what?

Then I remember how Owen came to trust me, and how I witnessed Isaac learning his first English words. I think about how Matthew struggles with his feelings, but I got through to him. I think about Eloise and her bunnies, and how she laughed so hard when I taught her Little Bunny Foo Foo.

Or that one day while doing the Hokey Pokey, I made a tired old person sound. Amelia copied me and laughed. So I did it again. Before long, the entire class joined in and we just made tired, old person sounds together and I don't think I've ever heard kids laugh as much as they did that day.

When I told my husband that I had doubts about going back, he was surprised. I was shocked at his surprise. Didn't he see me struggling every day with self-doubt? No, he saw how happy I was after every class, telling him about my day and not being able to stop talking about the kids.

We are a month away from the start of the school year, and I have my answer.

Yes, absolutely yes, I will be back.

I miss my kids.

Many of them will move on to the next class, they aged out of mine, but I’ll still see them and I can’t wait.

Isaac, Owen and Emmanuel should be back in my classroom, and I smile every time I think about seeing them again, along with all the new students that I’ll be meeting for the first time.

It won’t be easy with a new class. I started toward the end of the school year before, the kids had months of work getting used to the classroom rules before I took over. It won't be like that this time, it'll be harder. Many of these kids have never been in school before or away from their parents for the entire day. They are only two, after all. Many will cry, and I’ll have to learn what works best for them while not speaking the same language as them. I know I need more structure than before, more activities. I have to plan all of this out and I still have no idea what I’m doing.

But that’s okay.

I’ll adapt. I’ll learn with the children. I’ll figure out what they need, how they learn best. I’ll comfort them and guide them.

And I will get better at this because these kids are freaking amazing, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I've found my purpose.

We will learn together.

(All kid's names and identifying characteristics have been changed for their privacy.)

“Why am I bored? I’m never bored in the evenings,” I asked myself.

Then it hit me.

Normally I would be walking you. We’d visit pet stores and I’d buy those peanut butter cookie treats you liked. Then we’d walk home and eat the bag of them together (because they were approved for human consumption, and the best damned peanut butter cookies I’d ever had). I wasn’t bored when I had you.

You were more than just a pet - you were my emotional support dog.

You weren’t trained for the job, it just developed naturally for you. I’m sorry you had to deal with me at my worst. I struggled mentally and emotionally, and my life was like a roller coaster back then. It couldn’t have been easy for you, yet you always showed me love. You always knew how to calm me down, to stop me from spiraling.

And it wasn’t just me.

My ex had some anger issues, and every time he started getting upset, you would come over and place your head in his lap. Who could resist those big, brown eyes staring up at them? He’d pet you and calm down before even realizing that you’d worked your magic over on him.

You helped train the cats to stop scratching the furniture, which sounds so weird, but it’s true. Cat whisperer was one of your many talents. Once you were gone, Dexter went back to scratching everything he could dig his claws into.

Everyone who knew you loved you, and you spread joy everywhere you went.

You were my everything.

When I divorced my abusive ex-husband, you were there.

When I crammed everything I owned into a Ford Focus and moved thousands of miles away from my family, you were there.

When I lost my job, you were there.

When I thought I was losing it all, you were there.

My life revolved around you.

There were mornings that it would be hard to wake up, but I had to get up and take you potty. There were days I didn’t want to leave the house, but I had to walk you. There were days I didn’t want to eat, but I had to get up and feed you anyway, so might as well make myself something too. Every little thing that I did for you helped me too. You gave me a purpose.

You were the most consistent person in my life, and you weren’t even a person.

You were always there until you weren’t.

I think of my life in terms of Before Losing You and After You. The Beforetimes were the best times, the happy times. After you, I feared the best years of my life were over.

I found myself struggling to wake up, struggling to go outside, struggling to eat again.

I was bored, and nothing could fill that void the way you did.

Nothing ever will, not completely, and I know that.

But after five years, I realized it was time to open my heart to other possibilities.

People find it hilarious that I went from one of the biggest dog breeds to the smallest. I find it funny too, but I have my reasons.

After you, I knew I needed a dog I could carry in case of an emergency.

After you, I wanted a dog that didn’t have such a short lifespan.

After you, I wanted a dog that was nothing like you because I knew none would ever compare to you. It wouldn’t be fair to them if I tried to replace you - you were irreplaceable.

He’s tiny, he weighs about as much as one of your paws. He doesn’t love strangers or other dogs the way you did, he merely tolerates them. He barks more than you did. But he loves to cuddle and he’s the sweetest little thing.

And I already love him so, so much.

So while I’m still without you, I’m not alone anymore.

And I think you’d like that.

After all, you always seemed to want what’s best for me.

“I think our cat is broken.” We said that almost daily after adopting Dexter.

We were told he loved headbutts and was very sweet. We thought we were getting a kitten, but what we ended up with was something more resembling a demon than a cat (a demon that did enjoy headbutts, that part was true).

We originally adopted Dexter as a friend for our other cat, Miss Kitty. Instead of a friend, however, we gave her an annoying little brother. At night, when Miss Kitty was curled up next to me in bed, Dexter would hop up with us and start a fight with her. Tired of being woken up every ten minutes, I started nudging him off the bed. Not one to be deterred, he’d hop right back up and start picking on Miss Kitty again. Eventually, he learned I would nudge him from the bed so he’d hop up, pat-pat-pat her a few times and hop down before I could do anything about it. This continued all night. He earned a nickname, that referenced a Jack in the Box since that’s what he resembled when doing this.

We’d jokingly call him Mr. Dick. He wasn’t mean or aggressive, he just liked to annoy her - much like a little brother annoys an older sister. He even liked to play the “I’m not touching you,” game with her, hovering his paw inches from her face but never touching her until she’d had enough and jumped him. Dexter was a big cat - the foster parents had mistakenly told us he was a Maine Coon and while that didn’t appear to be the case, he was as large as one. Miss Kitty was a normal-sized calico. Yet she was raised on the streets and adopted as an adult, so when they’d start fighting, she always came out on top. Dexter would lie there on the ground, defeated, his tail jerking this way and that way as he tried to figure out how his much tinier sister could take him down time and time again.

One Christmas, we went all out on decorations - even hanging up stockings for our dog and two cats. The place looked festive, and we went to bed happy with ourselves. The next morning, we awoke to the stockings on the ground, the Christmas ornaments all over the floor and our decorations thrown all over the place. This is how he became known as The Grinch - because he simply loved destroying Christmas and anything to do with it. He even got a custom song that went like this (to the tune of the song from The Grinch).

You’re a mean one, Mr. Dick.
The meanest Dick around.
You’re furry and you’re cuddly with a heart as black as death.
Mr. Diiiiiiick.

His focus wasn’t just on Christmas decorations or Miss Kitty, however. He was also obsessed with my Great Dane, Annabelle. From the moment he saw her, it was love at first sight. She was a lot less enamored with him at first, and his constant clamoring for attention left Annabelle unsure of him at first. One night, I heard Annabelle pacing the hall - walking from her couch in the living room to the spare bedroom to the couch again. I got up to see what that was about only to discover that Dexter was following her from room to room, or in her mind, chasing her. She would get cozy on the couch and he’d join her, pawing at things and annoying her, so she’d get up and leave, only for him to follow her down the hall. She’d collapse on the floor in the spare room with a deep, annoyed sigh only for him to come up to her and start pawing at her all over again. She looked up at me like, please, can I sleep?

He didn’t care much for letting anyone sleep, apparently. Not Miss Kitty. Not Annabelle. Not me. He was a nocturnal creature and thought we all should be too. He demanded attention. When Miss Kitty passed away, he took over her job of kneading me at night very seriously - too seriously in fact, since he’d often growl at me if I dared move. He’d bite me if I’d pet him. It was like he was telling me, “Let. Me. Love. You.” So I did. I’d leave him to do his business, and I started calling him Business Cat.

Dexter eventually became best friends with Annabelle, however, and when he lost her, something changed in him. And when my ex and I split, he became even more needy of me. I think he was afraid of losing me too. He started showing more and more affection toward me, and before long, he became my little buddy. Every time I got on the computer to work, he’d run over and push everything off the desk - including the keyboard and mouse - in order to get attention from me. I’d kiss his little head and he’d headbutt me, purring away and not caring that I couldn’t get my work done. I always stopped whatever I was doing to love on him, because I needed him too after all the losses we’d suffered together over the years. And I knew life was fleeting.

He still kept me up at night, by scratching the bed and meowing loudly. I used to fight with him, begging for him to just let me sleep. But then I realized if I made room for him next to me in bed, he’d stop scratching and meowing and climb into bed next to me. I’d kiss his little head and scratch his chin until my eyes couldn’t stay open any longer. He’d stay next to me all night, sometimes spreading out and pushing me very close to the edge of the bed. But I didn’t move him. I knew one day he’d be gone, and I would miss those moments.

I knew the day would come, but I never expected it to come as quickly as it did. Dexter was ten years old and still spry as ever. He jumped on bookshelves, constantly ate any plastic he could find, and was generally causing mischief wherever he went.

When my husband told me that he was drooling, I figured it was nothing. I felt silly even taking him to the vet, thinking they’d laugh at me. We’d just gotten a new puppy and he loved eating the puppy’s food, so I assumed it was caused by that or the stress of having a new pup in the house.

The vet didn’t laugh at me though. He said, “Do you feel this lump here?”

I didn’t, but I trusted the vet. We scheduled a biopsy and a CT scan, and the vet pretty much assumed it was cancer. He started talking to me about “We’ll do the biopsy to determine if it’s a slow cancer or the bad cancer… Well, all cancer is bad, but there’s one that’s really bad.”

“But it might not be cancer, right? It could be something else?”

He looked sad for me, but said, “It might not be cancer, but it’s probably cancer, but some cancers can be treated with surgery–”

“Surgery?” I noted the location of the lump on his jaw. “To remove the cancer?”

“Well, to remove part of his jaw.”

My heart dropped. Tears welled up in my eyes. No, I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t remove part of his jaw. How would he eat? I wanted to scream, but I held it together and left the vet, with plans to do the tests a few days later.

It wasn’t easy to get him diagnosed. The first biopsy was inconclusive and gave me hope. The CT showed it might even be a tooth infection. Another biopsy was scheduled. More inconclusive results. More hope that maybe I wouldn’t lose my little buddy. He was only ten years old, it wasn’t fair. I lost Miss Kitty and Annabelle to cancer too. I had breast cancer. My mom has had three cancers in six years. I’m so fucking sick of cancer. I begged the universe to please let it be something else, to let my cat grow old beside me.

We visited a veterinary oncologist, and long story short, we eventually got the news.

It was the bad cancer.

Squamous cell carcinoma.

Within a matter of weeks, the cancer had grown so large that eating had become difficult. We went from feeding him only wet food to a liquid diet to him only eating treats. We tried feeding him with a syringe, a special medical diet, but he hated it. I hated doing it to him.

With no cure in sight and knowing that it was only going to get worse for him, I scheduled at-home euthanasia for my sweet boy. He fell asleep on my bed, curled up next to me like usual, while I gave him head kisses and whispered about how he was such an amazing cat. He would never wake up again.

No more scratching the bed and meowing all night long. I can work now, he’s no longer pushing my keyboard into my lap. I don’t have him business-catting on my blankets and being unable to move without getting bit.

I can sleep at night now.

Except no, I can’t.

Because there’s an empty spot next to me in bed and I miss all those things that used to drive me crazy.

I’d give anything to have him keeping me from writing this entry right now.

I miss him, annoying antics and all. I miss everything about him.

I just want him back.

I am interested in participating in this season of LJ Idol. I’m dusting off my Dreamwidth account and may cross post to Livejournal (we’ll see). I’ve been wanting to write for myself again, and should have some time over the next two months.

To sign up, go here: https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1138078.html?fbclid=IwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAR2REcHM0jc99iYcu7PulcD2r6AEZLWDKAklsi8ksGSP7IalhnqCkvzbYc8_aem_ckGdFFxkBleNngEiZapVIg

The ringing of the bell put a smile on Cordelia’s face. She stepped out from the back to find a young woman of maybe twenty standing at her counter, looking at her cupcakes and sweets.

“Good afternoon and welcome to Cordelia’s Cakes, where there’s magic in every bite! Let me know if I can help you with anything, anything at all.”

The woman had long, scraggly red hair, a darker shade than Cordelia’s. More copper than red. Her lips were pursed and her eyes bloodshot, she stared back at Cordelia with a weird look on her face and unshed tears in her brilliant blue eyes.

“I-I don’t know why I came in here.” The woman said softly. “One minute I was in my car, the next I parked it and walked in here, as if my legs had a mind of their own.”

“Perhaps you’re really in need of one of my treats then,” Cordelia said gently. “Anything in particular that calls out to you?”

The girl walked toward the counter.

Cordelia wondered to herself… What kind of magic is behind those sad, almost cerulean eyes? Because everyone who wanders into Hope Springs must contain a little magic, otherwise they’d never find this place. Most of the travelers who found themselves on the twisty, scenic roads through the small Ozark town didn’t even know of their heritage. They didn’t even realize that their bloodline contained brownie or witch or even demon DNA.

That would seem to be the case with the copper haired girl at her counter. She seemed lost, but the magic led her right where she needed to be, Cordelia had no doubt about that.

The woman looked at all the sweets laid out in front of her, the tears slowly drying up. “What is that purple cookie, right there?”

“It’s a blackberry macaron, with fresh blackberries picked from the forests around my home.”

“That sounds lovely. May I have one of those?”

“Just one?” Cordelia raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t think I can afford more than one.”

“They’re on the house.” Cordelia didn’t point out that everything at her bakery was free. While it appeared to be a business, that was merely a facade.

She wasn’t there to make money. Money didn’t have much meaning in Hope Springs. She was there to provide a necessary service for the people who came into town, no matter if they were there intentionally or accidentally.

“Oh no, I couldn’t do that—“

“I insist.” Cordelia began packing up several macarons. When the girl’s eyes wandered over to the passionfruit ones, she tossed a couple of those into the bag for good measure.

“I really can’t take these,” the girl said, her voice barely a whisper.

“Oh but you must,” Cordelia said with a smile.

The girl’s hand reached out for the bag as if on instinct. Her eyes went wide as if she couldn’t figure out why she was doing what she was doing. Cordelia knew that just like her legs earlier, her arms had a mind of their own now too. Cordelia remembered experiencing that same sensation herself, when she found herself in Hope Springs not even a few months before.

“Th-thank you,” the girl said.

“You’re welcome, dear.”

The girl took her treats and walked toward the door as Cordelia watched. She stopped and looked back at Cordelia, a small smile pulling at her lips. Her pale cheeks were filled with color, her eyes brighter and more beautiful than before.

“I don’t know what it is about this place, but I’m feeling better already.”

“Just wait until you try one of the macarons,” Cordelia said with a wink.

“I can’t wait.” She plopped one of the blackberry ones into her mouth and closed her eyes, heaving a deep sigh as her body seemed to relax before Cordelia’s eyes.

The bell jingled as the girl exited the shop. Cordelia nearly jumped out of her skin when a voice came out of nowhere.

“Blackberry macarons, huh?”

A familiar voice.

“Darby! I’ve told you not to sneak up on me like that.”

The man walked around the counter and sat on one of the chairs facing Cordelia. A smug smile on his face.

“I wasn’t sneaking, I’m just little. I can’t help it if you can’t see me.”

“Why didn’t the doorbell announce your entrance then?” Cordelia put her hands on her hips and stared down at the man.

A chuckle escaped his lips as he shrugged. “Okay, you caught me. But sometimes I like to watch you work your magic without you realizing I’m here. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a kitchen witch in action, you know.”

Cordelia’s posture relaxed. She knew Darby hadn’t meant any harm, he was right. It had been a long time since any witches used their magic in Hope Springs.

“Do you think she will be back? Maybe she will realize her power as it grows stronger inside of her?” Cordelia asked. Darby had been around magic his entire life, he knew things she didn’t. Sometimes she expected him to have all the answers.

“Maybe. But maybe not. Sometimes they’re not meant for our world. What does blackberry help with again? My kitchen magic is a bit rusty, I’m afraid.”

“It helps sooth a person in serious pain. A heartache so deep, life sometimes doesn’t feel worth living. That’s why I made sure to give her plenty.”

Darby was quiet for a few moments. When he did speak up, his voice was softer, gentler. “And passionfruit?”

“Someone who is seeking meaning in their life, their passion, their magic.”

Darby was quiet for even longer than before. He turned and looked toward the door the girl had left. “You know, it’s a good thing you’re here, Cordelia. A very good thing indeed.”