Small, wet, trembling. It looked silently, as if begging. I picked it up. A dirty, warm ball of fur.

Small, wet, trembling. He looked at me quietly, as if begging. I picked him up. A dirty, warm ball of fur. He didn’t fight back at all, just snuggled in. I was coming home from work, passing by the store. And there he was—just lying there, as if waiting for me. “Just for a few days,” I whispered to my wife. “Mom’s going to kill us. We’ll hide him in the closet, it’s warm there.”

My mother-in-law—cold as morning frost. Everything was according to plan: dinner at six, cleaning at seven. Emotions forbidden. She lived with us, and I was almost fifty. A second marriage, without illusions, but with the hope of a quiet, tender closeness. Nadja—kind, bright. Her mother—like a wall.