The Runt of the Pack

The whispered words, "This is goodbye," hung in the air as she slipped on her shoes, a finality in her movement towards the door. He, still on the bed that held her warmth, fought to keep his tone even. "Only until we meet again," he called out, but she was already gone.

Months later, the jarring ring of your phone shatters the quiet of your apartment. It's your mother, again, her voice laced with a plea you almost answer. Kitty, your massive tabby, purrs contentedly on your stomach, a furry weight anchoring you to the sofa. You turn up the TV, avoiding the call, knowing it's about Thanksgiving and going home – a place you've carefully distanced yourself from. Then, the message comes through the wall, a roar of frustration, and as you sit up, you see her, standing by the window, looking ready to murder. Your mother is here, and your carefully constructed independent life is about to collide headfirst with the pack you left behind.