The little old lady didn't understand what depression was. To her, even death wasn't a big deal, let alone heartbreak or divorce.
I felt embarrassed to cry in front of her over such trivial matters.
The sky in the countryside was so blue, and you could still see the stars.
All I did every day was eat, sleep, or play cards, getting scolded by the old lady for my dirty hands. Then, one day, she picked up a kitten.
To be precise, it was a placenta kitten—born prematurely, over a week early, its body pink and soft, without fur.
The old lady's card-playing friends said, "You should keep it in the old cat's nest. It might get eaten. If you want to try, go ahead, but if it dies, just bury it."
I wrapped it up in an electric blanket, ordered a heating box and some milk powder online, and went to the village for a pound of goat milk.
After consulting with a vet, I set an alarm to feed it every two hours. The kitten couldn't pee, so I gently wiped its little bottom with warm wet wipes. If there was even the slightest rustling, I would urgently call the vet.
Three days later, the kitten finally pooped. I couldn't breathe with relief, staring at it like some kind of obsessive weirdo.
Aldric, Cedric, Vivienne—they seem like distant memories from another lifetime.
I didn't want to think about anything. I only knew I wanted this little kitten to survive.
If I could raise a placenta kitten, what couldn't I overcome in this world?
Days passed.
A week passed.
I watched as the kitten began to feed on its own, to poop, and even started growing fur. When I saw its familiar three-color pattern, my eyes turned red.
In that instant, I felt like Sammy had come back. She couldn't bear to see me sad and had saved me once again.
"Grandma! Grandma!"
At my tearful call, my grandmother and her card-playing friends walked in. They all crowded around the cradle, staring in awe at the little kitten with its rear end up in the air. With everyone's gaze on it, the kitten finally let out a soft "meow."
I burst into tears.
All the past I had tried to forget was torn apart by that trembling "meow."
I saw the eighteen-year-old version of myself, the one I had cursed and hated a thousand times.
She stood on the windowsill, ready to jump, falling into her lover's arms, a little kitten biting the hem of her pants as she said, "I really like him so much."
Through the span of eight years, I asked her, "What if he betrays you? What if he hurts you?"
She smiled a little and said, "Then I'll let him go. What's the big deal?"
Yes, what's the big deal?
If I could raise a placenta kitten, what in the world could be more important than life itself?
I named the kitten Zest.
After that night, I stopped losing sleep.
