The old wooden porch creaked under my weight. A stray cat, thin and gray, stared up at me, her eyes like small, tired moons.
She’d been coming for a week now. I’d left scraps of chicken, a bowl of water. She ate quickly, always glancing over her shoulder.
Her fur was matted, her steps careful. I called her Xiaobao, though I don’t know why. It felt right, like naming a shadow that kept returning.
This morning, she wasn’t alone. A tiny kitten, barely a month old, wobbled behind her. Its fur was a soft orange, glowing in the dawn light.
Xiaobao nudged it toward the cardboard box I’d set out, lined with an old towel. She placed the kitten inside, gentle as a whisper. Then she vanished into the yard.
I waited, coffee cooling in my hands. She came back, another kitten in her mouth. This one was tabby, like her, with eyes still cloudy blue.
She set it in the box, next to its sibling. I didn’t move. I didn’t want to break the spell.
A Growing Family
By noon, there were four kittens. Xiaobao kept going, back and forth, her small body tireless. Each time she returned, another kitten dangled from her jaws, soft and helpless.
I found another box, bigger, and tucked a blanket inside. The air was chilly, and I worried about them catching cold. Their tiny bodies shivered when the wind picked up.
I spoke to her softly. “Is that all of them, Xiaobao?” She looked at me, her eyes steady, but didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure she trusted me yet.
A week of feeding wasn’t long. But she kept bringing them, one by one, like offerings.
By evening, there were five. I counted them as they squirmed in the box, their small mews sharp in the quiet. Xiaobao sniffed the blanket, then curled around them.
I went inside for a can of cat food. When I came back, she was gone again. I waited, heart tight, wondering if there were more.
A Mother’s Work
The next morning, I found seven kittens. Seven tiny lives, tucked into the box, their mother watching over them.
One had fallen out, a black one, sprawled on the porch. I scooped it up, quick but gentle, and placed it back. Xiaobao didn’t flinch. She just watched, her tail still.
I brought her goat’s milk and a plate of chicken. She ate like she hadn’t in days, her eyes half-closed, trusting me enough to relax.
The kittens nursed, their small bodies pressed against her. One, the orange one, kept climbing the box’s edge. I’d put it back, and it would climb again, fearless and stubborn.
I started to know them. The black one was shy, always seeking a place to nurse. The orange one was bold, always scrambling.
The tabbies were quieter, content to stay close. Xiaobao let me touch her now, her body soft under my hand. She never pulled away.
One day, I woke to find her gone. The kittens were alone, mewing softly. I counted six. My chest tightened. I searched the porch, the yard, the shoe rack by the door.
There, curled in a corner, was the seventh, a tabby, eyes wide with fear. I carried it back, its heart racing against my palm. Xiaobao returned soon after, unbothered, as if she’d known I’d find it.
A Quiet Bond
Weeks passed. The kittens grew, their eyes brighter, their steps surer. They played now, tumbling over each other, chasing a feather I dangled.
Xiaobao ate better, her ribs less sharp under her fur. I cooked her chicken, mixed it with rice. She’d wait for me each morning, sitting by the door, her eyes calm.
The kittens were plump now, their fur soft and full. They’d scatter when I wasn’t there, exploring the porch, hiding under chairs.
I’d find them, one by one, and tuck them back in the box. Xiaobao didn’t mind. She’d nurse them, then eat, then sleep, her body curled around the blanket.
One afternoon, a kitten peed on the blanket. I swapped it for a clean one, worried they’d get cold. Xiaobao watched me, her head tilted.
I wondered what she thought of me, this strange human who fed her, who held her babies. I wondered if she felt safe.
The orange kitten was the troublemaker. It climbed everything—boxes, chairs, my legs. I’d lift it down, its small claws pricking my skin.
It never stopped trying. I admired that, its stubborn heart. Xiaobao would watch, her eyes half-shut, too tired to chase it.
I moved them to a bigger space, a corner of the garage with a soft mat. They were growing fast, too big for the box.
They played harder now, pouncing on each other, wrestling in the sunlight. Xiaobao slept more, her work as a mother easing. She’d lie beside me sometimes, her body warm against my leg.
One evening, my own cat wandered over. She sniffed Xiaobao’s food, then ate with her, side by side. They didn’t fight.
It felt like a small miracle, two strangers sharing a meal. The kittens watched, curious, then went back to their games.
I thought about trust. How it builds slowly, like a house, one brick at a time. Xiaobao had been a shadow, wary and quick.
Now she leaned into my hand. The kittens didn’t run from me anymore. They’d grown in my care, their small lives tied to mine.
I didn’t know what would happen next—whether I’d keep them, find them homes, or let them stay wild like their mother. But for now, they were here, and I was theirs.
The days grew shorter. The air turned cooler. I’d sit on the porch, watching Xiaobao nurse her kittens, their small bodies lined up like beads on a string.
It was a healing thing to see, a quiet kind of joy. I’d lost things in my life—people, time, pieces of myself. But this, this small family of strays, gave something back. Not big, not loud. Just enough.
This story was inspired by a quiet, touching video you can watch here. If it moved you, feel free to support the original creator.