The kitten’s meow was faint, almost lost in the park’s evening hum. My son’s hand tightened in mine, his eyes searching the grass.
We stopped. The kitten, no bigger than a mitten, stumbled toward us. Its tiny legs wobbled, but it kept coming. My son knelt, his face soft with wonder.
The kitten’s fur was matted, streaked with something sticky. It looked up, eyes wide, trusting. I wondered if it was asking to come home.
We walked on, but the kitten followed. My son glanced back, his steps slowing. I felt it too—the pull of something small needing us.
At the supermarket, I bought a cardboard box. If the kitten climbed in, I’d take it home. It did, curling up inside like it belonged.
The First Night’s Quiet Fight
The vet’s office smelled of antiseptic and worry. The kitten’s fur was glued with mouse trap adhesive, only partly washed off. A wound on its side needed stitches.
The vet’s voice was gentle but blunt: it might not make it. My son’s eyes welled up, but he didn’t cry. He held the box steady as we left.
At home, the kitten was stiff, eyes half-closed, refusing food. I warmed milk, dripped it into its mouth. It drank, barely.
At three in the morning, I found it curled by the heater, shivering but alive. My son slept nearby, his hand resting on the box’s edge. I watched them both, my heart heavy with hope.
By afternoon, the kitten stirred. It licked its wound, then the milk I offered. It drank more, eyes clearing. My son smiled, naming it Deng Deng after a sound it made. The name stuck, simple and true.
A Bond That Grew Like Morning Light
Deng Deng grew stronger each day. He followed my son everywhere, miaowing when he came home from school.
They’d sit together, watching cartoons, Deng Deng’s head tilted like he understood. My son laughed when Deng Deng chased a toy mouse, batting it with tiny paws.
I saw my son’s loneliness ease, his quiet days brighter with Deng Deng’s play.
One evening, my son wrote names on paper, letting Deng Deng choose. The kitten pawed at the one with my son’s name.
They both grinned, as if sharing a secret. Deng Deng wasn’t shy anymore. He climbed into my son’s lap, purring, his fur soft now, free of glue.
I bought a storage box, better than a cat bed. Deng Deng loved it, curling up on its second level like a king.
At the vet again, Deng Deng met a big dog. No fear, just curiosity. He swatted playfully, the dog wagging its tail.
My son beamed, proud of his brave friend. Deng Deng’s strength surprised me—his will to live, to play, to belong.
Moments That Stay Like Warmth
Deng Deng became part of us, like breath. He’d run to my son’s hand for food, ignoring the bowl. My son fed him carefully, picking up dropped kibble, wasting nothing.
They wore matching flowered shirts one day—my son’s idea, not mine. I laughed, feeling younger than my years.
Deng Deng loved odd things: plastic bags, durians, even my brother’s car charger. He’d fight his own tail, spinning in circles, then nap with his head nodding.
My son drew pictures, Deng Deng watching, pawing at the pencil. They played hide-and-seek with a scratching post, Deng Deng darting through its gaps.
When my son built block towers, Deng Deng waited inside, ready to pounce.
One night, Deng Deng stared out the window. I wondered if he missed the park, the freedom of open grass. We took him outside once, and he ran, fearless, chasing leaves.
Back home, he guarded his litter fiercely, scratching if I scooped too soon. His tiny eyebrows, newly noticed, made my son giggle. Small things like that filled our days.
Deng Deng’s first birthday came. We celebrated with my son’s, a cake for each—kibble for one, cream for the other.
Deng Deng sniffed my son’s cake, curious but polite. He knew what wasn’t his. My son shared his snacks, unsalted biscuits, asking me first. Their trust was quiet, deep, like roots.
When we left for two days, Deng Deng stayed alone. He waited by the door, my friend said, but ate and slept well.
When we returned, he ran to us, miaowing, climbing into his cage without fuss. He knew us, even after weeks with someone else. That loyalty, so small and fierce, caught in my throat.
Deng Deng grew, his fur thicker, his eyes bright. He’d nap by the air conditioner, sprawl on my son’s homework, or chase a balloon until it popped. He wasn’t scared, just curious.
My son taught him to catch a ball, Deng Deng leaping like a tiny athlete. They’d watch fish in a tank, Deng Deng sipping the water, my son guarding the fish from him.
Sometimes, I’d catch Deng Deng staring at me, like he knew my thoughts. I’d wonder about his life before us, the park, the glue, the wound.
He didn’t dwell on it. He lived for now—my son’s laugh, a warm corner, a durian’s strange smell. I envied that, his ease in the moment.
My son’s allergies flared once, dust mites, not Deng Deng. I cleaned more, kept their space clear. They needed each other too much. Deng Deng worked hard, my son said, running after him, guarding him.
I saw it too—their care, their quiet pact. I felt lucky, watching them, knowing Deng Deng chose us as much as we chose him.
This story was inspired by a quiet, touching video you can watch here. If it moved you, feel free to support the original creator.