I believe everyone has some dark secret from childhood.

One secret that gets lost in the confusion

of our maturing mind but is still there, somewhere, in our peripheral vision. And every now and
then we get a brief look at it.
Mine has to do with my old cat, Mrs. Kelly.
My mom hated that cat. She was always muttering angrily when she needed to clean the tufts of fur
around the house, and several times she had hit Mrs. Kelly with a rolled-up newspaper when she got
too close. But she knew that Mrs. Kelly was my best friend, so she never had the courage to get rid
of her.
The cat was four years old when this story happened. It had also beeing four years since my father
had left us. I still remember that time, the flashes of arguments and shouts and nights where I
wouldn't be able to sleep, having the blanket covering my face and eyes filled with tears, while my
parents had a discussion in front of my room. And that morning, when we'd waked up to find that
my dad was vanished, his car missing in the garage, and a box in the kitchen's table with my name
in it. Soft moanings came from inside of it, and, as my mom opened the box, there it was Mrs.
Kelly, back then only a Kitten.
My mom wanted to give her away, but i just hugged the cat and begun to cry, shouting everytime
my mom tried to take her away from me. Soon after, she gave up, with no mind to deal with that. I
named the cat with the first name that came to my mind, and it soon became the only thing that
helped me those days. My mother growed numb and cold after my father left, and she doesn't tried
to hide her hate toward the cat.
In the first days, she made clear that i would've to take care of Mrs. Kelly alone.