When she kept you, she was worried you might not survive. You were small, small enough to fit in one hand. You hardly moved, hardly cried out. She sat you on her lap as she drove furiously to the vet, nudging you occasionally with tears in her eyes, hoping you might still survive. You stopped crying about two minutes from the vet. She pleaded with you. Don’t die, she said. Please, little fighter, don’t die. Don’t die. Not here. Not yet. You’ve not even lived yet. Please, don’t die.

You moved and let out a small, weak cry.

She got you milk, resolved to keep you alive. I’ll stay up with you, she said. I’ll keep you alive. I won’t let you die. She told herself she could do it—for you. For you. And when the dark lines under her eyes, and the exhaustion started to set in three hours after bringing you from the brink of death, she told herself constantly that she could do this. For you.

That night, tears of desperation in her eyes, she tried to get your mother to accept you. The old cat, panicked at the sound of your cries, grabbed you immediately and took you home. The one that gave you milk was relieved. She was relieved because she didn’t want you anymore.