I was born in the quiet corner of a forgotten alleyway, tucked behind a bakery that never noticed the life that stirred near its dumpsters. My mother was thin, sickly, and scared. She tried her best to care for me and my siblings, but the world was cruel and food was rare. One by one, my siblings disappeared—some taken by people who didn’t know how to love, some lost to the cold night air.
And then, one day… she was gone too. My mother. Just like that. I don’t know if she left to find food and never came back… or if something terrible happened. I waited for hours. Then days. My tiny body curled up in the corner of a box soaked with rainwater, shivering and hungry, listening to the sounds of the city that never seemed to notice me.
I’ve been abandoned since the day I was born.
No one ever picked me up. No one called me “sweetheart” or “baby” or even gave me a name. People walked by—some kicked at the trash near me, others just stared for a moment before continuing on. A few threw scraps, but never stayed to see if I was okay. My fur got matted. My bones stuck out. My eye developed an infection that made it hard to see, and still… I waited. For something. For someone.
You see, even in all that silence, I still had hope.
There were nights I’d look up at the stars and imagine what it might feel like to sleep in a soft bed. I’d dream of a warm hand stroking my head gently, or of hearing a soft voice whispering, “You’re safe now.” I didn’t want much—just one person to see me. To really see me.
I watched other cats get taken in. They had bright coats and clear eyes. They looked clean and playful. I was dirty. Small. Frightened. I didn’t play—I just survived. And so I was passed over. Again and again. Season after season.
But still, I waited.
One afternoon, when the sun was low and golden, I heard footsteps that didn’t sound like the others. They were slower. Softer. There was no rush in them. I stayed curled up in my box, too tired to even lift my head. Then… I felt it. A presence. A quiet pause.
She crouched down beside me. Not too close. Just enough that I could smell warmth. Safety.
“Oh, sweetheart…” she whispered. “How long have you been alone?”
No one had ever asked me that before.
She didn’t reach for me right away. She just sat. Talked. Her voice was calm, full of something I hadn’t heard in a long, long time—kindness. She came back the next day. And the next. Each time bringing food. A towel. A soft blanket. Until one day, she brought a carrier. And I… I walked in on my own.
That was the day I began to believe in love.
Now I sleep on a windowsill, my body wrapped in sunlight. My fur is still a little scruffy, and my eye never fully healed. But she says I’m beautiful. That I’m brave. That I’m home.
And finally, after all the waiting, all the hunger, all the loneliness… I believe her.
Because I’m not just a stray anymore.
I’m loved.
I’m safe.
I’m home.
