Simon was against a second cat in the house: his move simply stunned the whole familySimon quietly adopted the second cat himself and introduced it to the family as his own best friend.

The cat sat on the windowsill, staring down at the courtyard where pigeons squabbled over a crust. Simon watched the cat. Seven years they’d lived together, if you didn’t count his wife Emily and their daughter Sophie. But the cat—Jasper—was his. From day one, when a three-month-old fluff ball had dug its claws into his jumper and fallen asleep in the crook of his arm.

Emily was stirring a pot of stew, and the kitchen filled with the smell of bay leaf. Sophie, twelve, sat at the table, swiping her thumb across her phone screen. A normal Saturday evening, same as a hundred before and a hundred to come. But Simon noticed his daughter glancing at her mother with a kind of hopeful wait. And her mother, stirring the stew, gave her a tiny nod, as if they’d agreed something earlier.

“Dad,” Sophie began, using the voice she reserved for asking for a new phone or permission to sleep over at a friend’s.

Simon lowered his newspaper.

“Yeah?”

“So, Lena’s cat had kittens. And there’s one nobody wants. He limps a bit—front paw’s twisted. They want to, well…”

She didn’t finish, but it was clear enough. Simon looked at Emily. She was stirring the stew with extra effort, even though it hardly needed it.

“No,” he said. Not angry, not sharp. Just no.

“But why?”

“Because we’ve got Jasper. He’s seven, used to being alone. Bring another in, there’ll be fights, spraying, even more fur. I’m against it.”

Sophie looked at her mother. Emily turned off the hob and sat down next to her husband.

“Simon, love, the kitten’s three months old. The paw didn’t heal right. If nobody takes him, Lena’s taking him to a shelter, and they don’t exactly find homes for ones like that.”

Simon understood. But he didn’t nod.

“I’m against it,” he repeated, and picked up his paper.

—

A week passed. Sophie stopped asking, but at dinner she passed him the bread in silence. And Emily stopped asking how his day at work went. Simon felt it like a draught—windows closed, but a cold edge creeping in.

On Friday, Sophie came home from school with red eyes. She dropped her backpack by the door and went straight to her room. Emily followed, came out after ten minutes.

“What?” Simon asked.

“Lena said the kitten’s being taken tomorrow morning. They found a shelter on the outskirts. But Sophie saw photos from there—tiny cages, two hundred cats, the smell…”

Emily wasn’t pushing. She just told him and went to wash the dishes.

Simon stood alone in the hallway. From Sophie’s room, no sound at all—worse than crying.

Next morning, Simon got up earlier than everyone. So early he only got up like that for fishing, and the season hadn’t started. The kitchen light was on over the hob; outside the window, grey. He pulled on his jacket, grabbed the car keys, and left.

He’d found Lena’s address in Sophie’s phone the night before while she slept. Scribbled it on a scrap of paper, shoved it in his jacket pocket.

He parked outside Lena’s flat and dialled.

“Hello?” A sleepy, annoyed voice.

“It’s Simon, Sophie’s dad. Is the kitten still there?”

Pause.

“Yes… yes, still here. The shelter people are coming at eleven.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll take him. Coming up now.”

He hung up and sat in the car for a minute.

Lena opened the door in a dressing gown, silently handed him a shoebox. Inside, on an old towel, sat a kitten. Grey, striped, scrawny. The front paw jutted out sideways, as if assembled in a hurry. Yellow eyes, frightened.

“He’s quiet,” Lena said. “Hardly mews. Eats anything. Litter trained.”

Simon nodded, took the box, and carried it to the car.

He got home while everyone still slept. Set the box on the hallway floor, took off his jacket. The kitten inside made no sound. Simon peered in: the little creature had backed into a corner, staring up at him unblinking.

“Right, what am I supposed to do with you?” Simon muttered.

The kitten lifted its crooked paw, as if trying to reach his finger but not quite making it. Simon sighed. Went to the kitchen, poured some milk into a saucer. Then remembered kittens shouldn’t have milk, tipped it out, grabbed some cooked chicken from the fridge, chopped it fine.

When he came back to the hall with the saucer, Jasper was already sitting by the box, peering inside. Tail still, back not arched.

The kitten climbed out, limping, hobbled to the saucer and started eating. Jasper sniffed, then padded off to his armchair. No fight, no hissing.

Sophie found the kitten first. Simon heard a muffled shriek from the bedroom, then rapid footsteps, and his daughter burst in with the kitten cradled in her arms.

“Mum! Mum, where did he come from?!”

Emily sat up in bed, blinking sleepily. She looked at the kitten, then at Simon. He lay with his hands behind his head, studying the ceiling with great interest.

“Dad?” Sophie turned to him, voice trembling. “Was it you?”

“If you start yelling, I’ll take him back,” Simon grumbled, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

Sophie sat on the edge of the bed and cried. Not the kind of crying she did at school over a mean comment—a different sort, the kind you can’t explain. The kitten froze in her arms, pressed against her jumper.

Emily didn’t say a word. She placed her hand on Simon’s arm and squeezed. Quick, short. Then she got up and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

They named the kitten Milo. Sophie had wanted Count, but Simon said, “Count? He came out of a shoebox. He’s Milo.” And Milo settled in as if he’d always been there. The first week Jasper gave him a wide berth; the second week he started tolerating him; by the end of the month they slept on the same armchair—Jasper, ginger and dignified, and Milo, grey with a wonky paw, face buried in Jasper’s side.

Simon watched them in the evenings and said nothing. Emily once asked, “You were against it. What changed?”

He paused, scratched Milo behind the ear. The kitten purred and half-closed his eyes.

“Sophie was crying. I heard it through the wall. And I thought—I fix things around the house all day, but this didn’t need fixing. Just picking up and driving over. Simple as that. And I was digging in my heels over… fur?”

Emily smiled and didn’t add anything.

Six months later, Milo had grown. The paw was still crooked, but he tore through the flat like a maniac, knocking over slippers and leaping onto the wardrobe. Jasper just watched him go.

And Simon sometimes caught himself on the sofa in the evening: Jasper sprawled on his lap, Milo asleep on his shoulder, the football on telly—and he didn’t hear the score, because he was afraid to move.

And that, honestly, was better than any score.