Greg read the message three times.
Then he set the phone down.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“No what?”
“They can’t separate them.”
“You don’t know that.”
“They were found together.”
“That doesn’t mean they have to be adopted together.”
“They sleep together.”
“They’re kittens.”
“They cry when they’re apart.”
“Because they are very young.”
He turned toward me.
“You’re seriously considering this?”
I understood the question beneath the question.
Was I willing to let Susan leave?
I looked toward the guest room.
She was sprawled half on top of Steve, one tiny paw across his neck.
“No,” I said.
Greg exhaled sharply.
Then I continued.
“But that doesn’t mean we get to decide by instinct.”
His relief vanished.
“What else is there to decide?”
“What is best for them.”
“Together.”
“Maybe.”
“Laura.”
“We ask Denise.”
Greg picked up his phone immediately.
I stopped him.
“Tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Because it is almost midnight.”
“She’ll be awake.”
“That is not permission to call.”
“This is important.”
“To us.”
He stared at me.
I saw the realization arrive.
He had almost turned our urgency into someone else’s obligation.
Again.
He put the phone down.
“Tomorrow.”
“Good.”
He checked Steve’s medication schedule.
Then Susan’s weight.
Then Steve’s weight.
Then he checked both again because apparently scales could become dishonest within thirty seconds.
“Come to bed.”
“In a minute.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“I want to make sure Steve settles.”
“He is asleep.”
“He could wake.”
“That is generally how sleep works.”
Greg looked at me.
I held out my hand.
He hesitated.
Then he took it.
Upstairs, the bed felt unfamiliar with both of us in it.
That realization saddened me.
Greg lay on his back staring at the ceiling.
“You’re thinking too loudly.”
“Sorry.”
“What are you thinking?”
“That she’ll leave.”
I knew he meant Susan.
“Eventually, yes.”
“And Steve?”
“Eventually too.”
“He might need surgery.”
“Yes.”
“Who adopts a sick kitten?”
“People adopt sick animals all the time.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
Greg rolled toward me.
“If Susan goes first, he’ll be alone.”
“He may not care as much as you think.”
“You’ve seen them.”
“Yes.”
“They’re bonded.”
“Are they bonded, or are we?”
Greg looked away.
That question hurt both of us.
In the morning, Denise arrived before Greg could call.
She carried a bag of supplies and the expression of someone already prepared for resistance.
“I assume you saw the inquiry.”
Greg folded his arms.
“Yes.”
“Before you panic—”
“Too late,” I said.
Denise smiled.
Greg did not.
“Is Susan going to be adopted?”
“Not immediately.”
“Then why send us the message?”
“Because fosters need to know when applications come in.”
“Why only her?”
Denise shrugged gently.
“The applicant saw her photo.”
“What about Steve?”
“His medical hold means he can’t be listed yet.”
Greg frowned.
“That’s unfair.”
“To whom?”
“Steve.”
Denise looked at him.
“He doesn’t know he has an online profile.”
“That is not the point.”
“What is the point?”
Greg opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Denise set the supplies down.
“Greg, kittens are not children.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His expression hardened.
I almost intervened.
Then I stopped myself.
This was exactly the conversation he needed to have without me translating it.
Denise sat in the rocking chair.
“Siblings can be adopted separately.”
“They depend on each other.”
“At this age, they depend primarily on caregivers.”
“They sleep together.”
“They also sleep in food dishes.”
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves they are kittens.”
Greg crossed his arms tighter.
Denise’s voice softened.
“Could they benefit from staying together? Possibly.”
“There.”
“But that is not the same as saying separation harms them.”
Greg looked toward the box.
Susan was attacking the edge of the blanket.
Steve watched with little enthusiasm.
“He’s sick.”
“Yes.”
“He needs her.”
“Maybe.”
“You keep saying maybe.”
“Because rescue work contains a lot of maybe.”
Greg hated that answer.
Denise continued.
“You want certainty because certainty lets you know exactly what your job is.”
Greg looked at her sharply.
She had known him six months.
Long enough, apparently.
“But sometimes the job is simply to care well without controlling the outcome.”
The room went quiet.
I looked at Greg.
He stared at Steve.
Finally he said, “That sounds like something Laura would say.”
“I like her already,” Denise said.
I smiled.
Greg ignored both of us.
“What happens with the adopter?”
“If the application is approved, we schedule a meeting when Susan is medically ready.”
“And if we think they should stay together?”
“We’ll consider your observations.”
“Consider.”
“Yes.”
“So we don’t decide.”
“No.”
Greg’s jaw tightened.
Denise waited.
Then she said, “That is the agreement you signed.”
He looked toward the dresser.
The foster paperwork sat in a folder there.
He had signed the line promising to return the animals for adoption.
Six to eight weeks.
If they thrived.
“I remember.”
After Denise left, Greg took Steve for his follow-up weigh-in at the rescue clinic.
I stayed home with Susan.
For the first time, I spent several hours alone with one kitten.
It changed something.
She followed movement now.
Her eyes were clearer.
She had begun standing with slightly more confidence.
When I placed my hand in the box, she climbed onto my wrist.
“You are trouble,” I told her.
Susan bit my sleeve.
“Exactly.”
I thought about the potential adopter.
A stranger.
Some person who might take this ridiculous tiny creature and turn her into part of another household’s ordinary life.
The idea hurt.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
That was worse.
When Greg returned, he was carrying Steve and wearing an expression I could not read.
“What happened?”
“He gained twelve grams.”
“That’s good.”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you look like somebody fired you?”
Greg set the carrier down.
“Michael called.”
Our son rarely called during work hours.
“What about?”
“He’s coming home.”
My first reaction was joy.
Then suspicion.
“When?”
“Next week.”
“That soon?”
“He has meetings in Chicago and said he can extend the trip.”
Greg began unpacking Steve’s medication.
“He wants to stay here.”
“Of course.”
I watched him.
“You’re upset?”
“No.”
“You look upset.”
“I’m not.”
“Greg.”
He stopped.
“He asked me if I needed help.”
I understood.
“And?”
“I said no.”
“Did you mean it?”
“Yes.”
“Then why does it bother you?”
Greg put the medication down.
“Because I used to call him and ask if he needed help.”
“And now?”
“Now he thinks I’m the one who needs checking on.”
I almost laughed.
Then I saw his face.
“You hate the reversal.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
Greg rubbed his forehead.
“Because it makes me feel old.”
“You are fifty-six.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“He sounded like me.”
“That must have been terrifying.”
“He said, ‘Dad, I can move some things around.’”
I smiled.
“That is absolutely you.”
“He has never moved things around for me.”
“Maybe he wants to.”
Greg looked at me.
“Maybe.”
There it was again.
The word he hated.
Maybe the children no longer needed him the same way.
Maybe they wanted him anyway.
The distinction mattered.
That evening, Michael called both of us.
He confirmed his arrival for Wednesday.
Then Emma joined the call.
Within minutes, our children were discussing crib brands.
Greg sat silently.
I watched him fight the urge to interrupt.
Finally Michael said, “Dad, you’re being weirdly quiet.”
“I was told not to project-manage.”
Emma smiled.
“You can talk.”
“About cribs?”
“Within reason.”
Greg leaned toward the phone.
“Do not buy one with a drop side.”
I started laughing.
Emma groaned.
“That advice is approximately twenty years out of date.”
“Correct advice does not expire.”
The conversation became easy.
For an hour, our children let him be useful in small ways.
Not because they could not function without him.
Because they knew it mattered to him.
When the call ended, Greg looked lighter.
Then the rescue messaged again.
The applicant for Susan had been approved.
A meeting could be scheduled in two weeks.
Greg stared at the message.
I waited for the refusal.
Instead he took a long breath.
“Two weeks.”
“Yes.”
He looked toward Susan.
“She’ll be bigger by then.”
“Yes.”
“And Steve?”
“We’ll see.”
Greg nodded.
Then, for the first time, he said the words without bitterness.
“We’ll see.”
The next morning, however, Steve refused his first feeding.
Then the second.
By noon, his breathing had changed.
And suddenly two weeks felt impossibly far away.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: Steve’s Sudden Decline Brought Michael Home to a Father He Barely Recognized—and Forced Greg to Accept Help Instead of Offering It
For Three Weeks Greg Left Our Bed After Midnight, and One Missing Family Keepsake Made His Explanation Impossible to Believe
Part 10 of 24
