I spent the entire night searching for Willow. Flashlight in hand, I walked the neighborhood, calling her name until my voice went hoarse. Neighbors peeked out through curtains, some even helped me check under porches and inside sheds, but no one had seen a small gray kitten with white paws. By midnight, my hands were shaking so badly I had to sit on the curb just to breathe.
Drew offered to “help,” but it was obvious he didn’t want to. He walked halfheartedly down the driveway, glanced around once or twice, then returned to scrolling on his phone. I watched him from across the yard—his expression wasn’t worry. It was irritation. As if losing Willow was an inconvenience to him.
Around 2 A.M., I returned home, defeated and aching. Drew was already in bed. “Look,” he mumbled when I walked into the room, “she’s just a cat. You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
My heart clenched. “She’s not just a cat. She’s all I have left of Grandma.”
He rolled over, pulling the blanket tighter. “You’re being dramatic.”
That word—dramatic—stung more than anything else he’d said. It was the kind of word people used to silence you, to make your pain seem imaginary. And suddenly I started replaying moments I had brushed aside: how Drew always closed the bedroom door so Willow couldn’t sleep with us, how he complained about her scratching the sofa even though she’d never touched it, how he frowned every time she curled up on my lap when we watched movies.
The next morning, I checked the backyard again. Then the front. Then every corner of the house. That was when I noticed something odd—the doggy door was clean. Too clean. No dirt. No fur. No sign she’d actually passed through it.
Something twisted in my stomach.
I looked everywhere for clues. Behind the washer, under the cabinets, inside the garage. And then, while checking the hall closet, I noticed a small pile of shredded tissue, pressed down like something had been hidden there.
Or kept there.
I stepped back, my pulse hammering.
When I confronted Drew again, he became instantly defensive. “Why are you accusing me? I told you she got out!”
I hadn’t even accused him yet. That reaction told me more than his words ever could.
Later that afternoon, while Drew went to pick up dinner, I took his truck keys and checked the backseat, the floor, everywhere. And there—tucked under a blanket—was one of Willow’s toys. Her favorite felt mouse. The one she never took from the house.
My breath caught. He had lied. He had taken her somewhere. Or worse.
When he got home, I stood in the doorway holding the toy. His face went pale. “Where did you—”
“Drew,” I whispered, “what did you do to her?”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
The silence between us stretched into something sharp and dangerous. I waited for him to explain, to deny it, to show any sign of remorse—but all he did was stare at the toy mouse in my hand as though it were incriminating evidence in a trial he never thought he’d face.
“I didn’t mean for you to find that,” he muttered, voice low.
That sentence alone made my knees weaken. Not I didn’t do anything. Not you’re misunderstanding. Not even I’m sorry. Just a confession disguised as regret about getting caught.
“Where is she, Drew?” My voice cracked, and I didn’t even try to hide it. “Tell me where you left her.”
He raked a hand through his hair, pacing. “She was… she was ruining everything. Scratching stuff, making a mess, keeping you up at night. You were obsessed with her.”
“She was a kitten,” I said, stunned. “She was a gift from my grandmother.”
“You cared more about that cat than about our engagement,” he snapped.
His words sliced through me. “So what? You got rid of her?”
He didn’t answer. He just looked away.
That was enough. I grabbed my phone and keys and walked out the door before he could stop me. If Willow was out there—scared, injured, alone—I wasn’t wasting another second.
I spent the next two hours driving street by street, checking wooded areas, calling local shelters and emergency vets. I didn’t want to think about the worst possibilities, but they hung over me like storm clouds. At every stop sign, every turn, every stretch of road, I whispered, “Please be okay, Willow. Please.”
Around 10 P.M., I pulled into a small animal rescue center on the edge of town. The moment I walked in, a volunteer recognized the description. “A little gray-and-white kitten? Someone brought her in earlier. They said she was found on the side of the road, hiding under a bush.”
My legs nearly gave out. “Is she here? Is she alive?”
“Yes,” she said gently. “Come with me.”
When I saw Willow curled up in a small blanket-lined cage, a tiny bandage wrapped around her paw, my heart cracked open. She lifted her head, blinking sleepily, and let out the softest meow.
I broke down completely.
The staff told me she was dehydrated but safe. Whoever found her had acted quickly. She hadn’t been hit by a car, thank God. But the fact that she had been dumped—placed intentionally somewhere she could have easily died—made my blood boil.
I took Willow home that night, but I did not go back to Drew’s house.
Instead, I packed my essentials, grabbed Willow’s carrier, and drove straight to my mother’s. When she opened the door and saw my tear-streaked face and the kitten in my arms, she didn’t ask a single question. She just wrapped us both in her arms.
In the days that followed, I ended the engagement, filed a report with animal protection services, and blocked Drew from every possible contact. He tried calling, leaving messages, begging me to “talk it out,” but there was nothing left to say. You don’t come back from something like that—not when trust has been broken at the most fragile point of your heart.
Willow healed slowly—physically and emotionally. And so did I. Every night she curled up against my chest felt like a reminder that love doesn’t abandon you, doesn’t throw you away, doesn’t see your bond as competition.
My grandmother had given me Willow so I would always have something gentle in my life. Maybe she somehow knew I’d need that gentleness more than ever.
