The moment I walked into the house, I knew something was wrong. The usual sounds of my cat, Benji, were missing, and the air felt heavy. The faint scent of my mother-in-law’s perfume hit me like a warning.
I turned to John, who was lounging on the couch, glued to his phone. “Where’s Benji?” I asked.
John barely looked up. “No idea. Maybe he ran off.”
Fear crept in. Benji never ran off—he was terrified of the outside world. Then I saw her—Carol, sitting at the dining table, sipping coffee with a smug smirk.
“What did you do?” I demanded.
Carol remained calm. “You’re finally free of that disgusting animal.”
My heart sank. Benji wasn’t just a pet; he was my comfort, my family after losing my father.
I noticed movement outside—my neighbor, Lisa, waving frantically. She showed me a video: Carol had handed Benji over to Samantha, my high school tormentor. The caption read, “Meet the newest addition to the family! #newcatmom.”
I stormed back inside. “Samantha? You gave my cat to her?”
John shrugged. “Mom’s got a point.”
Fury surged. I grabbed my keys, stormed out, and confronted Samantha. “Give me my cat,” I demanded. With proof of theft, she reluctantly returned Benji to me.
Back home, I confronted John and Carol. “I want a divorce,” I said. I had the power now, and I wasn’t backing down.
In the end, I reclaimed Benji, and for the first time in years, my home felt peaceful.
