The Straw

Grief doesn’t arrive on schedule.

It doesn’t ask permission.

It doesn’t care how strong you’ve been.

It doesn’t always come for the biggest loss.

Sometimes it comes quietly,

in a moment that looks small to other people.

A feral cat.

One who never let us close.

One who suddenly came inside to die.

And that’s when my body gave out.

My throat closed.

My stomach dropped like gravity had doubled.

I couldn’t stand.

I couldn’t speak.

I felt myself fall.

Not just over him.

Over everything.

All the deaths of the last five years.

All the moments I kept moving because I had to.

All the grief I folded away so I could survive another day.

I didn’t collapse when the others died.

I kept functioning.

I kept creating.

I kept cleaning, working, pushing.

That was instinct.

That was survival.

But grief keeps score.

It waits until the body feels safe enough to stop bracing.

And last night, sitting on the floor with a dying being who finally trusted us,my body decided it was time.

People might say, “You fell apart over a cat?”

Yes.

Because grief isn’t logical.

It’s cumulative.

This wasn’t about one life ending.

It was about all the endings I never fully felt.

The feral cat wasn’t the tragedy.

He was the last straw.

And when the straw breaks the camel’s back,

it isn’t weakness.

It’s the moment the load finally comes down.