Margaret sat in her cosy flat in the heart of London when it struck her—she’d been abandoned. For three years, she had shared her life with a man who drifted in and out like a shadow. Sometimes he stayed the night, helped with small tasks, and she called him hers. For six months, he even lived with her, and in secret, she dreamed he might become her husband. Both were past forty—an age when one longs for stability.
Yet something about him unsettled her. He had a degree in economics but barely worked in the field. One day a cabbie, the next a labourer, then idling at his parents’ cottage in the Cotswolds. Strangely, they still fed him—a grown man in his forties—and he accepted it without shame.
Still, he wasn’t all bad. He was clever, well-read, unselfish—someone she could talk to for hours. Margaret hoped their bond might deepen. She needed to think of the future, of family. Deep down, she saw him as her anchor.
Her life wasn’t unhappy. Her great-aunt had left her this one-bedroom flat—bright, tidy, overlooking the Thames. It was a haven of comfort: books, the warm glow of a reading lamp, a fluffy cat named Winston. The cat was her shadow—reserved, loyal, though like all cats, he masked his affection with indifference.
Money was never scarce. She worked as an accountant, undisturbed, unbothered. But reason whispered, *You’re past forty. It’s time to settle.* And this man, imperfect as he was, had woven himself into her days. Three years of uncertainty, and she’d grown attached.
Together, life felt less lonely. Or had she just convinced herself of it? The truth slipped away like a wisp of fog.
He had a key to her flat. He came and went as he pleased—no promises, no ties. Yet Margaret held onto hope: perhaps this could grow into something real. People change, don’t they? Life is unpredictable.
It all shattered when she was hospitalised. A minor surgery, just five days. Winston was looked after by her neighbour, Edith. But *her* man—he never called, never visited. It stung, but she brushed it off. *Men can be thoughtless. It happens.*
A month passed. Silence. Then, a call:
“Margaret, I’ve met someone else. Let’s meet—I’ll return your key.”
She froze, slow to grasp it. Preparing for their meeting, she feared one thing: what if he brought *her*? That mocking glance, that feigned indifference—it would be unbearable.
But he came alone. Wordlessly, he handed her the key and muttered,
“All the best.”
Margaret wandered into a nearby café. Over a cup of tea, the pain struck like a wave. She realised—she’d been discarded. It hurt so much her legs nearly gave way. She went to her friend Eleanor’s, collapsed onto the sofa, speechless. Eleanor didn’t console her, only murmured a line from Eliot: *”Abandoned, a word of human making.”*
She returned home pale, crushed. Three years of her life—empty. *Abandoned.* Word or feeling, what did it matter? The ache was real.
At the doorstep, Winston waited. He brushed against her legs, purring. Margaret absently filled his bowl, but the cat, defying habit, didn’t touch it. Strange.
A weakness washed over her. Her legs buckled, her mind fogged. She lay down, eyes closed, until she felt a weight on her chest. She opened her eyes—Winston was staring at her. His gaze was deep, almost human. A glimmer caught the light by his right eye, like a tear.
Margaret lifted her head, kissed his brow. Suddenly—relief. The pain faded. *He* was gone? So be it. Fate had removed him, sparing her greater loss. Winston, his soft fur and knowing eyes, seemed to agree.
Cats are mysteries. They seem simple, yet understand more than we know. Winston had felt her sorrow and shared it. Some cats are almost human. We just don’t always see it.
