I came to stay at my sister’s house, but my husband is allergic to her two cats. I threw them away and finally…
We arrived at my sister’s doorstep with nothing but our suitcases and desperation. My husband, our two kids, and I had uprooted our lives with no money, no jobs, and no plan. When my sister opened the door, her face flickered between shock and concern, but she didn’t hesitate to let us in. What else could she do? We were family.
But there was a problem: the cats.
I had forgotten about them—Milo and Daisy, my sister’s precious, spoiled little furballs. My husband, Liam, was violently allergic. His eyes swelled, his throat closed up, and within minutes of stepping inside, he was wheezing and miserable. It didn’t take long for resentment to start simmering.
“You know I can’t live like this, Claire,” Liam whispered to me that first night as we lay squeezed together on a lumpy pull-out couch. “I’ll be in the hospital by the end of the week.”
I knew he was right. My children needed their father. I needed my husband healthy. I wasn’t about to let a couple of animals dictate our lives. So, I did what needed to be done.
It was past midnight, and the storm had been raging for hours when I crept out of bed. Claire was fast asleep, and the cats were curled up in their usual spot by the window. I opened the back door and gently scooped them up, one at a time.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure to whom. To the cats? To my sister? To myself? It didn’t matter. I set them outside and closed the door.
Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. The wind howled as the cats hesitated for a moment, then bolted into the night, frightened by the storm. My heart pounded, but I told myself it was done. I had secured my family’s place in this house. The problem was solved.
Until morning came.
Claire woke up to an empty house and immediately noticed. “Milo? Daisy?” Her voice was full of rising panic as she searched the house, opening every door and cabinet. Then she saw the back door, the one I had carelessly forgotten to wipe down. Raindrops on the floor. Wet footprints leading back to the couch.
Her eyes snapped to me. “Did you let them out?”
I swallowed hard. “No, of course not! Maybe they got scared by the storm and slipped out through a window?”
She didn’t believe me. I could see it in her eyes. But she didn’t accuse me outright—not yet. Instead, she threw on her coat and rushed outside, calling their names, checking under cars, taping up posters all over the neighborhood. She didn’t stop for hours.
Liam looked at me from across the tiny living room. “She’s going to find them,” he muttered, his voice edged with fear. “We can’t have them back here.”
I knew what he meant. We couldn’t go back to how it was before. I had gotten rid of them once; I had to make sure they stayed gone.
The question was—how?
Days passed. The search intensified. My sister barely slept, wandering the streets at all hours. Guilt gnawed at me, but I buried it deep. Then, one afternoon, she returned with a tight expression, her eyes hollow with exhaustion.
“I talked to the neighbor,” she said, her voice eerily calm. “They saw someone open the back door. In the middle of the storm.”
I stiffened. “That’s awful. Maybe it was—”
“I checked the security footage.”
My stomach turned to ice. She knew.
Liam gripped my arm, his breath coming fast. “Claire, listen, I—”
“Get out.” Her voice was cold, firm. “All of you. Now.”
I stammered, but she didn’t waver. “But we have nowhere to go!”
“You should have thought of that before you threw away my family.”
With no choice, we packed our bags, dragging our children into the rainy streets. Homeless, desperate, and with nowhere to turn, I realized too late—I had traded security for deceit. And in the end, I had lost everything.