Albert and I spent 42 years together. We had no children, just each other and, eventually, Tabby. He found her one winter evening, a tiny striped kitten shivering in his coat pocket. “She needed a home,” he said, but I always knew it was Albert who needed her.
When he passed, Tabby became my last link to him. She slept in his chair, curled up where he used to sit, and every night, she’d climb into bed beside me, just like he used to. She was my comfort. My routine. My little piece of Albert.
So when I saw her streak out the front door one afternoon, my heart nearly stopped.
“Tabby!” I called, rushing after her, my slippers slipping on the pavement. She weaved between parked cars, her tail flicking as if this were a game. But it wasn’t. I knew too well how fast cars could be, how easily something could be taken from you in an instant.
She slipped into a narrow alley, and I followed, breathless. The space smelled of damp brick and rust, the kind of place that swallowed sound.
I turned in circles. No sign of her.
“Tabby?” My voice cracked.
A rustling noise near a dumpster made me freeze. I hurried toward it, heart hammering. But instead of Tabby, I saw an abandoned baby boy.
He was wrapped in a thin blue blanket, too small for the chilly evening. His tiny face was scrunched up, his mouth wide open in a silent wail, as if he’d cried so much he’d run out of sound. My breath caught in my throat.
What kind of person leaves a baby like this? Alone. Vulnerable.
I knelt down, my hands trembling as I touched the soft fabric. His little fingers twitched, curling in on themselves. He was alive. Thank God, he was alive. But he was cold—his cheeks had a bluish tint, his tiny nose red from the cold.
“Shhh, shhh,” I murmured, scooping him up. He barely weighed anything.
And then I heard another rustling noise.
A familiar one.
I turned just in time to see Tabby, peeking out from behind a stack of old crates. Her eyes were wide, her tail puffed up. She let out a questioning “mrrp?” and stepped forward cautiously.
I blinked at her.
“Tabby? You ran all this way just for—”
She trotted toward me, but instead of rubbing against my leg like usual, she sniffed the air and went straight for the baby, circling him like she was investigating a new kitten. Then, to my complete shock, she curled up beside him, purring.
I stared at the two of them—the cat I thought I’d lost, the baby I never expected to find. Tabby must’ve heard his crying and thought he was another lost baby in need of help. Maybe, in some way, we’d both been called here for him.
I needed to get him inside.
With the baby cradled against my chest and Tabby trotting at my heels, I rushed back home as fast as my old legs would carry me. My heart pounded, a mix of fear, adrenaline, and something I hadn’t felt in a long time—purpose.
Once inside, I grabbed a clean towel and wrapped the baby in it, then reached for the phone. My hands were shaking as I dialed 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“I—I found a baby,” I said, still breathless. “Outside, near the dumpsters on Pine Street. He’s cold but breathing. I brought him inside, but I don’t know what to do.”
“Stay with the baby, ma’am. Help is on the way.”
I hung up, pressing the baby closer to me, rocking him gently. Tabby stayed close, her green eyes never leaving his tiny face.
Minutes later, sirens wailed in the distance. When the paramedics arrived, I reluctantly handed the baby over, my arms feeling strangely empty without him.
“Do you know how long he was out there?” one of them asked as they checked his vitals.
“I—I don’t know. Maybe not long? He was still warm enough to be alive, but…” My throat tightened. “Who could do this to a baby?”
The paramedic sighed. “It happens more often than you think. But thanks to you, he has a chance.”
Tabby meowed loudly as if she wanted credit, too.
As the paramedics carried the baby away, I felt something strange stir in me. A longing. A need to know what would happen to him.
“Wait,” I said. “Will they find his family?”
“They’ll try. If not, he’ll go into foster care.”
Foster care. The words left a hollow feeling in my chest. He’d be passed around, shuffled from home to home, just like so many others.
I looked down at Tabby, who was watching the ambulance with an intensity I’d never seen before. Maybe she felt it too—the connection, the pull.
I wasn’t sure what came over me then, but the next words left my lips before I could think better of them.
“If he doesn’t have family… could I take care of him?”
The paramedic blinked in surprise. “You’d have to go through the proper channels, but… if you’re serious, talk to Social Services.”
And that’s exactly what I did.
Weeks passed. I kept checking in, asking about him. They told me they were searching for relatives, but no one had come forward.
I spent my nights thinking about him, about Albert, about how life had a funny way of circling back when you least expected it.
Then one day, I got a call.
“We couldn’t locate any family,” the woman on the line said. “If you’re still interested in fostering…”
I didn’t even let her finish. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
Tabby curled up on my lap that night, purring like she knew exactly what had happened.
The process took time. I had to prove I was capable, that I could raise a child despite my age. I thought they’d laugh at me, a lonely old woman with only a cat to keep her company.
But they didn’t. They saw my heart. They saw that love isn’t measured in years or circumstances—it’s measured in willingness.
And so, months after that cold evening in the alley, I brought him home.
I named him Nathan.
He was the family I never knew I needed.
Tabby became his protector, his little guardian, always watching over him like she had that night. And as I rocked him to sleep, humming softly, I realized something.
Loss takes things from us, but sometimes, life finds a way to give something back.
Albert had found Tabby when she needed a home.
Tabby had found Nathan when he needed one.
And somehow, through all the heartbreak, I found them both.
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