The divorce was delayed—because of the cats. Maybe they’ll be our saving grace?
Lately, it feels like James and I are trapped in that bleak phase every marriage stumbles into. Only ours has no exit. Just an endless loop of resentment and silence.
After seven years together, James decided he was the king of the castle. His idea of “man of the house” involves sinking into the sofa, remote in hand, flipping through channels like it’s a sacred duty. Next to him, a pint of beer, always within reach so he doesn’t have to move. Me? I’m expected to glide around like some 1950s housewife—cleaning, cooking, and keeping quiet.
I don’t know what happened to the man I married, but his laziness now feels almost aggressive. Even when I ask—no, beg—for help, he barely shifts. At best, I get a half-hearted “I’ll do it tomorrow,” followed by nothing. One day, in a fit of rage, I smashed the remote. He just smirked, fiddled with the TV buttons, then muttered that it was “too much effort” and stormed off to the pub across the street to “unwind.”
I vented to friends, to my mum. Reactions were mixed—some felt sorry for me, others said I should’ve left ages ago. A few even joked I got what I signed up for. But my mum was dead serious:
“For heaven’s sake, leave him! What are you still doing there? You could find someone decent. Thank God there are no children—imagine being stuck like this forever!”
She’s not wrong. Leaving would be easy. No custody battles, no legal mess. But there’s one reason I’ve never told anyone why I haven’t walked away.
It’s the cats—Mittens and Whiskers.
They’re why James and I met in the first place. A sleepy vet clinic just outside Manchester. I was there with Whiskers, he had Mittens. His cat handled her shots like a seasoned pro. Mine screamed bloody murder, nearly mauled the vet, and hissed like a demon. Afterward, James struck up a conversation—recommended a calming remedy. One chat led to another, and the next thing I knew, we were inseparable.
Two months later, Whiskers and I moved in. A year after that, we were married.
To our relief, the cats hit it off instantly. Whiskers didn’t mind moving into Mittens’ territory, and Mittens—ever the regal one—welcomed her like an old friend. They were inseparable. They’d curl up together when we were out, sunbathe side-by-side, and follow each other around like little shadows. James and I were happy back then too, and our cats were living proof—purring on our laps, always choosing to be close to us, and to each other.
But when our marriage began to crumble, the cats became my emotional anchors. On those nights I’d retreat to the kitchen, choking back sobs, Mittens would appear—soft, warm, persistent. She’d press her head into my hand as if to say, I’m here. You’re not alone. I’d cry into her fur, and she’d stay right there, a steady heartbeat against my own.
Whiskers had a different strategy. She’d march right up to James and whack him on the leg, her little tail twitching in fury. Her glare said it all: Stop upsetting her, you idiot. He never cried the way I did, but even he couldn’t ignore Whiskers’ judgment.
And so, we lingered—arguing, making up, always teetering on the edge of divorce. But each time we got close, the same thought stopped us cold: What about the cats? They were so bonded, so attuned to each other. Separating them felt cruel—dangerous, even. Cats grieve. They stop eating, grow sick, wither with sorrow. And neither of us wanted that on our conscience.
Then came the last straw. A dripping tap and a sparking socket in the bedroom. I begged James to fix them. He shrugged. “I’ll get round to it.”
I lost it.
“I’m calling a handyman.”
He exploded. “I said I’d do it! Why are you bringing strangers into the house? It’s a five-minute job!”
“There is no man in the house,” I snapped. “So why not hire two?”
We were screaming, red-faced, past reason—when the cats intervened. Mittens leapt down from the windowsill, hissing, claws flashing in my direction. Whiskers stood in front of James, ears back, teeth bared like a tiny tiger.
We both froze.
And for the first time in a long while, we weren’t looking at each other—we were looking at them.