My grandkids came home from the park with a tiny, fluffy kitten whose eye was swollen and angry. We agreed she shouldn’t stay with kids or their friends—too fragile, too sore. The plan was to take her to a shelter.
Then I sat down with her in my lap.
She looked up at me, and in that quiet, stubborn way kittens have, she told me everything I needed to know. She wasn’t a stranger anymore. She was mine.
At the vet, the prognosis was a question mark. Maybe the eye would heal, maybe not—time would decide. She weighed just 1 pound 2 ounces, maybe five weeks old, a wisp of a thing. We started medicine, then another round, then a third.
And slowly, beautifully, her eye came back. Today there’s only the faintest scar—so light you almost miss it.
Nine months on, she’s a stunning calico with warm brown streaks like maple syrup drizzled over cream. I named her Miss Maple the first time the light hit those colors just right.
She didn’t come home with the grandkids after all. She came home with me.
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