People asked why he limped.
Then they stopped asking.
What they wanted was a kitten with bright eyes and no history. Something easy. Something pretty. Something they could bring home without having to explain the scar across its nose.
After three weeks, then six, then ten, I quit checking my phone every five minutes for adoption messages.
I told myself I wasn’t taking it personally.
But I was.
Because if I’m honest, it wasn’t just about him.
I was tired too. Tired in that quiet American way where you keep showing up, keep smiling, keep doing your job, and nobody notices you’re running on fumes because you’re still functioning.
I lived alone. Ate standing at the kitchen counter half the time. Had more conversations with animals than people some weeks. And there was something about Patch that got under my skin. Maybe because he didn’t ask for much. Maybe because he looked like what survival actually feels like.
So we let him stay.
