Every morning, as I opened my bedroom window, she was there.
A small calico cat.
She would sit by the garden wall with three tiny kittens tumbling around her, climbing over her tail and playfully biting her ears. She never seemed annoyed. She simply watched them with tired, loving eyes, cleaning each one before they wandered off again.
It became my favorite part of the day.
Then one morning...
There were only two.
I assumed the third one was hiding somewhere nearby.
But the next day, she came back alone.
She walked slowly around the yard, stopping at every bush, every flower pot, every corner where her little one used to play. Every few steps, she let out the softest cry—a sound so quiet I almost missed it.
She did the same thing the next day.
And the day after that.
For weeks, I watched from my window as she searched the same places over and over, as if she believed that if she looked one more time... her baby would come running back.
The other two kittens grew bigger.
They chased butterflies.
They climbed trees.
Life moved on for them.
But not for her.
Sometimes, she would stop beneath my window and stare down the empty lane before letting out that same heartbreaking little cry.
It sounded less like a meow...
...and more like a mother calling a child who would never answer.
One evening, I saw her curl up with her two remaining kittens.
She licked them gently, held them close, and closed her eyes.
But even then...
There was just enough space left between her paws...
For the kitten she never stopped waiting for.
