It started with a text:
“Hey—Kayla’s coming for the summer!” Excited, I thought we’d bond slowly.
Then came text #2:
“Oh—and we’ll need to rehome the cats. She’s super allergic.”
My cats. Milo and Bean—the ones who kept me sane during lockdown. He wasn’t joking. “They’re just animals,” he said. “You’ll have other cats. You won’t have another chance to be part of my family.”
I realized I wasn’t family. I was convenient.
I refused to give them up. He said I was choosing cats over him. I said no—I was choosing not to throw away family. He left muttering, “You’ll regret this.”
Then Kayla arrived—and she wasn’t allergic. She loved cats. She told me he’d made her give up her own cat years ago. Suddenly, it clicked: he wasn’t protecting her. He just hated cats and wanted control.
Two days later, I ended it. He tried guilt, manipulation, threats—I didn’t budge. Choosing honesty and my cats over toxic love felt right.
Weeks later, Kayla texted: “Thank you for standing up for your cats. No one stood up for mine. I think you’re really cool.”
Milo and Bean are still my shadows. I don’t regret a thing. Love isn’t ultimatums—it’s making space for the things and people you love.
