Oliver was perfect. That is not grief talking — it is just the truth. In twenty-five months he never caused a moment of trouble: not a thing scratched that shouldn’t be, not a fight picked with his sister or anyone else, not a single thing done wrong. He was simply, straightforwardly good. The kind of cat who makes you think you must have done something right to deserve him.

Some losses come with the weight of years behind them, and you can hold onto that. This one doesn’t. This is just a beautiful boy who didn’t get his time, and a mother who will carry that for the rest of hers. There is no consolation that fits.

Only love — which was always, at least, enormous.