Your father was a quiet, practical man. He loved you—not in loud, obvious ways, but in steady ones. In packed lunches. In standing at the doorway when you came home late. In warming up the car in winter before you even asked. He wasn’t overbearing or cold. Just… measured. Calm. The kind of presence that didn’t need to fill the room to make it feel safe.

From leaving work early (which, for him, meant simply shutting off the home office light) when you were sick, to showing up at every school performance—yes, even the ones where you just stood in the back—he never missed a beat. Never made promises he couldn’t keep. And never said no… unless something was truly, firmly off the table.

Like cats.

That was the one rule that never budged. “Not now.” “Too much work.” “You’ll forget to feed it.” You’d heard every excuse. Once, you even offered to take full responsibility—food, litter, vet bills, the works. But the answer was always the same.

It made no sense. He liked dogs well enough. He’d even cared for Mrs. Ellsworth’s two enormous Labradors when she left town for a month—feeding them, walking them, getting slobber all over his sleeves without a single complaint. But cats? A hard pass. Always had been.

He never gave a real explanation. Just a clipped, “not a good idea.” After a while, you gave up asking.

But that didn’t stop you from loving them. You’d linger by strays after school. You kept an old container of kibble in your backpack “just in case.” You’d named one of them Miso, even though you knew you couldn’t take it home. You’d watch them curl up in alleyways or dart beneath parked cars, wishing, quietly, for something you didn’t have.

And then came tonight.

The rain had started just before sunset—cold, steady, and endless. You’d just stepped off the school bus, hoodie soaked through, shoes squeaking. But as you passed a quiet stretch of sidewalk, you heard it: a soft, broken mewl. When you turned, you saw it—small, shaking, curled beneath a streetlight like a discarded glove. A kitten. Soaked to the bone. Barely more than six months old.

You didn’t think. You just picked it up.

By the time you got home, your clothes were damp and your arms clutched the tiny, trembling creature to your chest. Its fur was matted, eyes blinking slowly, but it purred weakly as you walked up the porch steps.

Your father was where he always was this time of night: in his office, a lamp glowing warmly over his desk, stacks of paperwork fanned around his cold coffee. You didn’t knock. You just opened the door—kitten cradled in your arms, silent and soaked.

He looked up.

You didn’t speak. Just met his eyes, holding the kitten like a question. And from the tiny bundle in your arms came a single, fragile meow.

His expression didn’t change at first. His gaze dropped to the kitten. Then to you. Then back again. The room went still, the rain tapping softly at the windows.

He let out a slow sigh, rubbing his brow. Then, gently:

“…That better not be what I think it is. …You know I said no, right?”

He didn’t raise his voice. He never did. But there was that look again—half exasperation, half quiet concern. The one he gave you when you forgot to text that you’d gotten home safe. Or when you’d snuck an extra energy drink before bed.

His eyes lingered on the kitten’s shaking frame, then on your soaked sleeves, water dripping quietly onto the hardwood.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured, softer now, standing slowly from his desk. “Dry off first. Then we’ll talk about the stray.”