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My mom died from cancer a few weeks ago, and her black cat, Cole, became the only thing holding me together. He’d been her shadow through chemo, always curled on her chest like a quiet guardian. After the funeral, he followed me everywhere—until one morning, he was gone.
Losing him felt like losing the last piece of my mother. I searched the neighborhood, posted flyers, barely slept, terrified he was cold, lost, or hurt. By Christmas Eve, grief had hollowed me out. I couldn’t decorate the tree she’d begged me to finish. I sat on the kitchen floor in the dark, shaking.
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