A tiny gray kitten with little white paws.
She looked up at me with enormous eyes.
I stared at her.
Then at David.
“She was under the back steps,” he said.
I said nothing.
“I found her four days ago.”
Four days.
Exactly when the strange behavior had started.
“She was alone,” he continued. “I waited to see if her mother came back. She didn’t.”
“David…”
“She was too young to stay outside.”
I looked at the kitten again.
“I’ve been keeping her in the garage.”
Suddenly everything made sense.
The midnight trips.
The back door.
The watching.
The bed.
“You switched sides because of a kitten?”
“The door is closer to your side,” he explained. “I thought if I slept there, I could get up without waking you.”
“You have been sneaking out of bed to check on her?”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
He hesitated.
“At first? Every two hours.”
I stared at him.
“You were getting up every two hours?”
“She needed to be fed.”
“You were feeding her?”
“With kitten formula.”
Of course he was.
This was David.
Apparently, while I had been imagining secrets and betrayal, my mechanical engineer husband had been running a neonatal kitten operation in our garage.
He told me the entire story.
He had been putting tools away when he heard a faint sound beneath the back steps.
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