**The Warmth of the Family Table: How a Cat Changed Fate**
Margery Stephenson often sighed, telling her youngest daughter, Beatrice, “It’s your choice, of course, but this Edward chap doesn’t sit right with me. Not at all!” Beatrice only laughed. “Mum, he isn’t marrying you—he’s marrying me! You and Dad are happy together, but you’re both invited as guests of honour at the wedding!”
Margery couldn’t stand Edward. He was too ordinary—thin as a rake, awkward in conversation. “Goodness,” she’d complain, “he’s so plain—does he even have the stamina for life? And how will he treat Beatrice? My girl’s a proper beauty, clever as a whip, and him? Just look at him!” Her eldest, Eleanor, had divorced twice, but at least those men were strapping and successful. This one? Margery sighed. She couldn’t accept Beatrice’s choice, but what could she do? The heart wants what it wants.
That summer morning, Margery bustled about preparing for guests. Beatrice and Edward were coming, and Eleanor with her husband, Dominic. The house had to be spotless—even if she didn’t like the son-in-law, standards mattered. As she inspected the rooms, she gasped. “Good heavens! What on earth?”
Outside the garden shed, a scrawny tabby devoured food from her own cat, Whiskers’ bowl. “Well, that’s the limit!” Margery huffed. “Whiskers, are you the lord of this house or not? Letting your dinner be pinched!” She stepped forward, but paused. The stray shrank back, eyes wide with fear. Margery softened. “Poor mite. Skin and bones, half-starved. Go on, eat. I’ll fetch more for Whiskers.”
The tabby belonged to old Mrs. Throckmorton, the village oddity—stingy as winter, they said. Though her children sent money, her cat always looked famished. No one trusted her—she’d pocket anything left unattended. The cat, wary of everyone, only deepened her sour reputation.
By evening, Margery fed Baron, the loyal family collie who guarded the yard, then spoiled Whiskers with the choicest scraps. “Gracious, too much,” she murmured, then shrugged. “Well, that stray will be back. There’s enough for both.”
When the family gathered for dinner, Margery noticed Edward fussing over Beatrice—adjusting her chair, handing her drinks, asking if she was comfortable. “Edward, stop!” Beatrice laughed. “Sit down—there’s room enough!” She glowed under his attentions, proud as punch. Edward charmed them all—joking with Dominic, chatting comfortably with Margery’s husband. Even Eleanor smiled at his tales. Yet Margery eyed him skeptically. “They’re all sweet-tongued ‘til their true colours show.”
Beatrice was radiant—willowy, lively, while Edward was tall and gaunt, as if life had weathered him. “What sort of pair is that?” Margery thought. Yet the table buzzed with laughter as if they’d known each other forever.
Later, fetching honey biscuits from the garden shed, Margery froze. Edward crouched by Whiskers’ bowl, stroking the stray. “Don’t be scared, little one. No one’ll hurt you. You’re safe here.” His gentleness startled her. Edward, thin as the cat himself, beckoned Whiskers. “There’s plenty—come on.” Whiskers crept close, and the two cats ate side by side.
Margery cleared her throat. Edward looked up sheepishly. “Sorry, Margery. Just—does he eat here often?”
“All the time,” she admitted. “Used to shoo him off, but I pitied him. He’s got a home but no proper meals.”
Edward nodded warmly. “Beatrice and I found a stray too—called him Snowball. Was terrified at first, now he’s a right lap cat.” He smiled. “Need a hand with those biscuits?”
“Aye, take the tin—I’ll manage the rest.”
As they walked back, Edward inhaled deeply. “Smells just like my mum’s baking. Never needed store-bought sweets after hers.”
Something in Margery shifted. Later, watching Edward sneak Beatrice’s favourite raspberry jam onto her plate, her heart softened entirely.
When they left, she pressed a bag of biscuits into Edward’s hands. “For tea at home.” Beatrice beamed; Edward looked touched.
That evening, Margery sat with her husband by the shed, watching Whiskers and the stray argue over the bowl. “Honestly, Whiskers, there’s enough!” She stood.
“Where you off to?” her husband asked.
“Fetching another bowl,” she said. “These two won’t share.”
And so a second bowl appeared. The cats settled their squabbles. And Margery stopped grumbling about Beatrice’s choice. “A man who’s kind to a stray won’t be cruel to people,” she decided.
Soon, the tabby moved in for good, christened Rusty. Come winter, both cats followed the family to their city flat. And Margery, watching Edward, remembered him bent low, coaxing a frightened cat to eat—and knew Beatrice was safe in his care.