The next ten days became the happiest and most painful part of fostering.
The kittens changed almost hourly.
Susan discovered running.
She was terrible at it.
Her back legs frequently seemed unaware of what her front legs had planned.
Steve recovered more slowly, but each day brought something new.
A stronger appetite.
A louder cry.
A determined attempt to climb the side of the box.
Greg recorded everything.
Not obsessively now.
Almost.
“Two hundred ninety-eight grams,” he announced one morning.
I was brushing my teeth.
“That means nothing to me without context.”
“Up fourteen.”
“Excellent.”
“He also ate—”
“Greg.”
He stopped in the bathroom doorway.
“What?”
“I love Steve.”
“Yes.”
“I do not require his complete statistical history before coffee.”
He considered this.
“After coffee?”
“Negotiable.”
He smiled.
The medication schedule remained on the refrigerator.
Beside it, Greg had taped a piece of paper labeled INFORMATION FOR NINA AND ROBERT.
It grew daily.
Preferred food.
Sleeping habits.
Medication tricks.
Favorite toy.
Signs Steve was tired.
The fact that Susan hated having her paws touched.
I read it.
“You realize they will discover some of this themselves.”
“They shouldn’t have to.”
“Why?”
“Because I already know it.”
I looked at him.
He caught himself.
“Right.”
“What?”
“They’re allowed to learn their own version of them.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”
“It was what you were thinking.”
“It was.”
Greg took the paper down.
I stopped him.
“You don’t have to throw it away.”
“You just said—”
“I said they don’t need an operating manual.”
“So what do I give them?”
“Important medical information.”
“And?”
“Food.”
“And?”
“Maybe the name of the toy Susan likes.”
“And?”
I smiled.
“A reasonable amount, Greg.”
He sighed.
“Terrible unit of measurement.”
The rescue scheduled the adoption for the following Saturday.
Greg put it on our calendar.
He did not disguise the entry.
SUSAN & STEVE GO HOME.
I stood in front of the calendar longer than I expected.
Go home.
Not leave.
Not taken.
Go home.
Greg had chosen the words.
On Wednesday, Emma called.
She had completed another examination.
The pregnancy remained stable.
The bleeding had stopped.
Greg listened without interrupting.
When she finished, he said, “That’s wonderful.”
No medical interrogation.
Emma noticed.
“Who are you?”
“I’m evolving.”
“Mom, what did you do with Dad?”
“Extensive behavioral conditioning.”
Greg rolled his eyes.
Then Emma said, “Actually, Dad, I need to ask you something.”
He straightened.
I saw the old reflex ignite.
“What?”
Emma smiled.
“You’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The emergency face.”
“I have no emergency face.”
“You absolutely do.”
Greg deliberately relaxed his shoulders.
“Fine. Ask.”
“Daniel has a work conference next month.”
Greg nodded.
“I remember.”
“You remember his work conference?”
“You mentioned it.”
Emma looked at me.
“He’s terrifying.”
“Yes.”
She continued.
“It’s three days.”
“Okay.”
“I have another appointment while he’s gone.”
Greg waited.
Emma seemed almost surprised he did not volunteer.
Then she said, “Would you come?”
Greg stared at the screen.
“What?”
“Would you come stay with me for a few days?”
His face changed.
I felt something twist inside my chest.
Emma smiled.
“I don’t need you to inspect the apartment.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t need you to research doctors.”
“Okay.”
“I definitely don’t need you reorganizing the nursery closet.”
“You don’t have a nursery closet yet.”
“Dad.”
“Sorry.”
She laughed.
“I just don’t want to go to the appointment alone.”
Greg swallowed.
“Of course.”
“And Daniel’s worried.”
“I’ll come.”
Emma’s expression softened.
“Thanks.”
Greg looked overwhelmed.
Then, remarkably, he asked, “Do you want Mom too?”
Emma glanced at me.
“I’d love Mom too, but she has that art workshop.”
I had forgotten.
Three days I had booked months earlier.
I started to speak.
Greg touched my arm.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“Go.”
“But—”
“You’ve been looking forward to it.”
Emma nodded.
“Mom, seriously. Go.”
I hesitated.
Then agreed.
After the call, Greg remained seated.
I expected triumph.
Instead he looked thoughtful.
“She asked.”
“Yes.”
“She actually asked.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t offer.”
“I noticed.”
He smiled.
“I’m going to be unbearable about this.”
“Then you have learned nothing.”
His smile widened.
“I’ll try.”
The next morning, Greg bought plane tickets.
Only plane tickets.
No rental car.
No list of household projects.
No shipment of prenatal vitamins.
I considered this remarkable progress.
That afternoon, Nina texted through the rescue.
She asked whether Lily could bring something for the kittens when they picked them up.
Greg read the message aloud.
“What kind of something?”
“Ask.”
He typed.
A minute later the answer came.
A blanket.
Lily had chosen one so Susan and Steve would have something new that smelled like their new home.
Greg looked toward Michael’s blue blanket.
His face changed.
“What?”
He walked into the guest room.
I followed.
The kittens were asleep together.
Michael’s blanket lay partly beneath them.
Greg touched the repaired corner.
“My mother made this.”
“I know.”
“For Michael.”
“I know.”
“He used it until he was four.”
“Closer to six.”
“He denied that.”
“He was embarrassed.”
Greg smiled.
Then he lifted one edge.
Susan immediately grabbed it.
“She likes it.”
“Yes.”
He stood there for a long time.
“What are you thinking?”
“I want them to take it.”
I stared at him.
“Michael’s blanket?”
“Yes.”
“You refused to put it in storage.”
“I know.”
“You nearly accused me of treason when I suggested donating it.”
“I was emotional.”
“That was twelve years ago.”
“I have been emotional for a long time.”
I laughed.
Then I realized he was serious.
“You really want to give it away?”
Greg looked down at Steve.
“No.”
I waited.
“But I think I should.”
“Why?”
He ran his thumb over the worn yarn.
“Because keeping it in a closet didn’t preserve anything.”
I said nothing.
“Michael isn’t a baby because I kept his blanket.”
“No.”
“My mother isn’t here because I kept everything she made.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“But it kept Susan warm.”
“Yes.”
“And Steve.”
“Yes.”
He smiled faintly.
“Maybe that’s what things are for.”
I felt tears sting unexpectedly.
“Ask Michael.”
Greg nodded.
He called our son.
Michael answered from work.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Dad, you never call me at work because nothing happened.”
Greg smiled.
“I want to give your baby blanket away.”
Silence.
Then Michael said, “That was not on my list of possibilities.”
Greg explained.
Michael listened.
When he finished, our son said, “Do it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want it someday?”
“For what?”
“Your children.”
Michael laughed.
“Let’s not create imaginary grandchildren.”
“Fair.”
“You really want the kittens to have it?”
Greg looked at them.
“Yes.”
“Then they should have it.”
Greg swallowed.
“Your grandmother made it.”
“I know.”
“She’d hate that cats are sleeping on it.”
Michael laughed.
“That makes it better.”
Greg smiled.
“Thanks.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you called to ask.”
Greg looked at me.
“So am I.”
The morning of the adoption arrived too quickly.
Greg woke before the alarm.
This time he did not leave bed.
We lay there listening to the house.
Eventually I said, “You okay?”
“No.”
“Want to keep them?”
“Yes.”
“Want to cancel?”
“Yes.”
“Are we going to?”
Greg closed his eyes.
“No.”
We went downstairs.
Susan and Steve greeted us with impatient cries.
Their final breakfast in our house was ordinary.
That somehow made it harder.
Greg fed Steve.
I fed Susan.
Afterward, he packed their supplies.
Medication records.
Veterinary paperwork.
Food.
Toys.
Then Michael’s blanket.
He folded it once.
Stopped.
Unfolded it.
Pressed it briefly against his face.
Then folded it again.
I pretended not to notice.
At ten fifty-five, the doorbell rang.
Greg froze.
Five minutes early.
He hated that.
“Ready?”
“No.”
I touched his back.
He opened the door.
Nina, Robert, and Lily stood outside.
Lily carried the new blanket.
Greg looked at it.
Soft green fleece.
Brand-new.
No history.
Not yet.
They came inside.
Susan immediately recognized Lily and attacked her shoelace.
Steve approached more carefully.
Robert sat on the floor.
Within minutes, Steve was beside him.
Greg watched.
Nina reviewed the medical schedule with us.
She had already booked Steve’s follow-up appointment.
Greg asked the date.
She knew it.
He asked the cardiologist’s name.
She knew that too.
Finally I touched his arm.
Enough.
He nodded.
Denise arrived to complete the paperwork.
The signatures took five minutes.
The goodbye took forty.
Lily placed the green blanket inside the carrier.
Greg looked at Michael’s blue one in his hands.
“You can keep that,” Nina said gently.
Greg shook his head.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“No.”
Nina smiled sadly.
Greg crouched beside Lily.
“This belonged to my son.”
Lily looked at the blanket.
“When he was a baby?”
“Yes.”
“My mom kept mine too.”
Greg nodded.
“My mother made it.”
Lily touched the repaired corner.
“It’s old.”
“Very.”
Greg smiled.
“Susan likes chewing this side.”
Lily looked at the kitten.
“I’ll watch her.”
“And Steve sleeps better when part of it is folded near his face.”
“Okay.”
Greg handed her the blanket.
His hands remained on it for half a second longer than hers.
Then he let go.
Lily placed it inside the carrier.
Susan climbed onto it immediately.
Steve followed.
Greg laughed through tears.
“Traitors.”
Robert shook his hand.
“Thank you.”
Greg’s face tightened.
“For what?”
“For getting them here.”
There was nothing clever to say to that.
Greg nodded.
When the family carried the kittens outside, he followed them to the driveway.
The carrier went into their car.
Lily climbed into the back beside it.
Greg stood with his hands in his pockets.
Nina lowered her window.
“We’ll send pictures.”
“You don’t have to.”
“We want to.”
Greg smiled.
“Thank you.”
The car pulled away.
He watched until it disappeared.
Then he remained standing in the driveway.
I stood beside him.
The house behind us was quiet.
Too quiet.
“How bad?” I asked.
Greg breathed in.
“Pretty bad.”
“Regret it?”
He thought.
“No.”
I slipped my hand into his.
For several minutes, we stayed there.
Then Greg said, “I don’t know what to do now.”
I almost answered.
Instead I waited.
He looked at me.
“What?”
“You tell me.”
He considered it.
“Coffee?”
“Good beginning.”
We went inside.
The guest room felt enormous.
The warmed box was empty.
The bottles waited beside the sink.
The rocking chair stood still.
Greg walked into the room.
I followed.
He sat.
His eyes moved toward the empty place where the kittens had slept.
“I thought this would feel like losing them.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
I waited.
“And?”
He looked toward the window.
“And not exactly.”
“What else?”
Greg thought for a long time.
“Like finishing something.”
That was closer.
He touched the arm of the rocking chair.
“Maybe that’s what I never understood.”
“What?”
“That something ending doesn’t mean it failed.”
I sat beside him on the bed.
Outside, a car passed.
Then another.
Ordinary Saturday noises.
Greg leaned back.
“Michael leaving meant we did our job.”
“Yes.”
“Emma leaving too.”
“Yes.”
“My mother dying was different.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“I couldn’t fix that.”
“No.”
“But going home when she told me to wasn’t abandoning her.”
My throat tightened.
“No.”
Greg closed his eyes.
For twelve years, that sentence had apparently waited for him.
He opened them again.
“I think I know that now.”
I reached for his hand.
His phone buzzed.
A photograph.
Lily had already sent it.
Susan and Steve were curled together in the carrier.
Beneath them was Michael’s faded blue blanket.
Across the top lay the new green one.
Old home.
New home.
Greg stared at the picture.
Then smiled.
“They look okay.”
“They do.”
His phone rang almost immediately.
Emma.
Greg answered.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
“Dad, quick question.”
“Okay.”
“Do you still have that rocking chair?”
Greg looked at it.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
Emma hesitated.
Then laughed.
“Because Daniel and I were talking, and if everything keeps going well…”
Greg stopped breathing.
Emma continued.
“We thought maybe we could use it.”
His eyes filled instantly.
“For the baby?”
“No, Dad. For decorative storage.”
He laughed.
I covered my mouth.
“Yes,” he said.
“You can have it.”
“Don’t ship it yet.”
“I won’t.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“We’re not ready.”
“Okay.”
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
Greg looked at the empty room.
The kittens were gone.
The blanket was gone.
Soon, perhaps, the chair would go too.
A month earlier, each disappearance would have felt like evidence that his useful years were being dismantled piece by piece.
Now he rested his hand on the worn wooden arm.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he told her.
And for once, he meant exactly that.
Click here to continue reading: PART 17: With the Kittens Gone, Greg Had to Learn Whether the Rescue Still Mattered When Nothing There Belonged to Him
For Three Weeks Greg Left Our Bed After Midnight, and One Missing Family Keepsake Made His Explanation Impossible to Believe
Part 16 of 24
