Dear Diary,
I first spied the orange kitten while out on my afternoon walk, but Mrs. Clarke organised a game of DuckDuckGoose with the children and I never got a chance to get any closer. The kitten was ginger, just like the little Milo Ive come to think of, though Im still not sure whether his whiskers counted as lashes. Milos mother once told me that a sunbeam had kissed him, and she kissed him herself before she passed away. Since then no one has laid a kiss on him. My father is always too busy, and for some reason my grandmother seems to have no affection for Milo.
If a sunbeam really did kiss him, does that make him a sunson of sorts? I wonder whether the ginger kitten also received a kiss from the sun. Do kittens even have lashes? Those questions fluttered through my mind during naptime.
James, why arent you asleep? Mrs. Clarke nudged the blanket onto my lap. Close your eyes, love. I obeyed, but sleep eluded me. I lay there listening as Mrs. Clarke whispered in the staff room: How long can we keep this up? One assistant for two groups with the number of children we have is absurd. Who would work for that pay? A voice replied, Good thing Anna left. The way she dealt with the kids, wed be better off without a nanny. Mrs. Clarke snapped back, We cant just abandon them, can we? No, well never solve this. The room fell silent.
The former nursery nanny, Anna Whitaker, terrified not only me but the other children as well. She was quick to scold, and if a child refused the mushy porridge, she would shove a spoon down their throat until it hurt. Once she slammed the spoon hard onto my tongue, and the taste came right up onto the table. I was terrified; Mrs. Clarke cleaned me up and changed my shirt, and she warned Anna off. Soon enough someone complained, and Anna never returned to the playgroup.
During an evening stroll I tried again to spot the kitten, but only a flash of a ginger tail flickered among the hedges by the gazebo before Dad appeared. Since Mums death, Dad hardly speaks to me and seems to ignore me altogether. He picks me up from the nursery and sends me off to my room to play. One day I overheard Grandma snapping at Dad: David, Ive told you a dozen times youre raising a child that isnt yours. He doesnt look like you, do you see that? Dad retorted, He looks like Nadine. He barely resembles Nadine. Why not run a paternity test? Its simpler than fussing over a strangers boy. I could barely follow their bickering; Grandmas sharp tone had become background noise.
A new nanny arrived the next morning, completely different from the last. She spoke softly, never raised her voice, and the children ate without protest. Curious, I set my spoon down and stared at her. She came over: Hello there! Whats your name? Liam? Im Irene Clarke. Why arent you eating, Liam? I muttered, I dont like porridge with lumps. She smiled, Ill tell you a secret I dont like those lumps either, and I never force the children to eat them. If you leave a lump on your plate, well see who has the most later. The idea sparked my imagination, and I began hunting for lumps in my bowl. To my surprise there were hardly any, and while I was searching Id already swallowed most of the porridge. Irene praised me, calling me a big champion. No one had praised me in ages, and I felt a warmth spread through me.
From then on I loved going to the nursery even more. Irene helped the lead teacher wherever she could, and the children quickly grew fond of her. One day Mrs. Clarke asked Irene to look after the kids during nap time while she slipped into the headmistresss office. The children breathed quietly, yet I still couldnt fall asleep. Liam, why are you still awake? Irene stroked my head. Do you know my mother is now in heaven? I whispered. Her throat tightened; she had taken a liking to this quiet, gingerhaired boy who never smiled. She confessed, I didnt know. And the sun also kissed me once. I giggled, Do kittens have lashes? She laughed, Probably. Why do you ask? I told her everything the ginger kitten hiding in the bushes, the suns kiss, and my wish for a brother, even if it were a kitten, because nobody else kisses me now.
Do kittens kiss children? she asked, eyes soft. I whispered, Maybe, but their tongues are rough. She gently patted my tousled hair and said, Sleep now, love. I drifted off, amazed at her kindness.
Later the headteacher explained to Irene that my mother had been in a childrens home and had died recently. My stepgrandmother never accepted my mothers partner, insisting the child wasnt theirs. My father was told the boy wasnt his. The boy, though tidy and bright, had stopped smiling; once he shone like a sun, now he seemed dim.
Weeks passed and I fell ill. The city, despite the early summer, was battling a nasty flu strain. I missed the nursery for two weeks, then three. He wont come back, Mrs. Clarke told Irene. My father arranged for me to be placed in a care home, claiming the paperwork. Irene was stunned: A care home? With a living father and grandmother? The truth emerged a DNA test proved my father wasnt related, and after five years of raising me, the family decided I belonged elsewhere. The world felt upside down.
Walking home in a daze, I imagined the orange kitten again: Do kittens really have lashes? Suddenly, a bright orange ball rolled out from beneath the nursery fence. I instinctively scooped it up it was the very kitten Id heard about, ragged but alive. Its fur was a vivid ginger, its eyes wide with curiosity. I examined it; there were no lashes, just whiskers.
That night, when Dad returned from work, the clean, plump kitten sprinted to greet him. What a surprise, Irene! Will it chew up the sofas? Dad joked, noticing my relieved smile. Im fine with it, I replied, I heard cats are mischievous little scamps. We talked for hours, and Dad finally asked, Are you sure this isnt just a stray we found? I answered honestly: Id taken the job at the nursery because I had no children of my own, so helping other children felt right. Dad insisted everything would sort itself out, even as doctors warned of complications. We filed endless forms, gathered references, and secured a place for the kitten in our home. Thanks to the headmistresss contacts, to my own persistence, and to my mothers memory, we finally had a family again.
Now the orange kitten lives with us, and every morning we walk to the nursery together. Look, Liams back! the teachers cheer. Did you know kittens have no lashes? Their tongues are indeed rough! they laugh. In two years Ill start Year1, and my mother, dad, both grandmothers, my grandfather, and my little sister will all be there to see me off.
It took loss, confusion, and a stray cat to teach me that love isnt bound by blood alone; it can grow from kindness, patience, and a willingness to welcome the unexpected. Ive learned that sometimes the smallest purrs can fill the biggest voids.
