Then a tiny cry came from somewhere underneath the wooden garden border.
My anger disappeared instantly.
“What was that?”
“Her sibling.”
Greg pointed toward a narrow opening beneath the edging.
“I don’t know if it’s a boy or girl yet. They were nesting underneath here. Susan was close enough that I could grab her, but the other one crawled farther inside.”
Another faint squeak came from beneath the soil.
Greg picked up the shovel.
“I’m trying to widen the opening without making the dirt collapse on it.”
I looked from my husband to the kitten in his arms.
Then to Michael’s blanket.
Then to the hole.
“What exactly is happening?”
Greg winced.
“Can we talk after I get the other kitten out?”
“No.”
“Laura.”
“No, Greg. You’ve been leaving our bed every night for three weeks. You lied about your back. Michael’s blanket disappeared. I heard you downstairs calling someone sweetheart and saying Daddy loved them, and now I’ve found you digging around our backyard in pajamas.”
“I didn’t take the blanket.”
“You told me you donated it.”
He gave me a guilty look.
“That was… not one of my better lies.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
Instead, I crouched beside him.
“Tell me how I can help.”
Greg hesitated before carefully placing the kitten in my arms.
“Keep her wrapped up.”
The second that tiny body rested against me, I understood why the blanket mattered.
She weighed almost nothing.
Just warmth, fragile bones, and one very offended little squeak.
Greg returned to the garden.
About ten minutes later, after moving dirt inch by inch and enduring increasingly furious cries from beneath the border, he finally managed to reach inside.
He pulled out another tiny gray kitten.
Relief hit me so hard I nearly cried.
Greg actually did.
He sat back in the dirt, holding the kitten in both hands while his shoulders sagged.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded much too quickly.
“Fine.”
Something about the way he said it bothered me.
But first, I needed answers.
“Inside.”
The guest room made far more sense once I knew what I was seeing.
There was a small animal carrier against the wall.
Tiny bottles.
Kitten formula.
A digital scale.
Stacks of old towels.
A heating pad beneath one side of a shallow box.
And several printed pages of instructions bearing the logo of a local animal rescue organization.
I turned slowly toward my husband.
“How long?”
“I’ve never brought animals home before,” he said quickly. “The other nights I was taking late feeding shifts at the rescue. Afterward I slept down here because I didn’t want to wake you.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Greg looked toward the floor.
“I’ve been volunteering there for about six months.”
I stared at him.
“Six months?”
“The overnight feeding shifts only started three weeks ago.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“What exactly do you do there?”
“Whatever they need. Cleaning cages. Picking up supplies. Transporting animals. Feeding newborns sometimes.”
“For six months?”
He nodded.
“And you never thought to tell your wife?”
Greg rubbed the back of his neck.
“At first, it didn’t seem important.”
“And later?”
His hand dropped.
“Later… it felt weird because I’d already gone so long without telling you.”
I looked around the room again.
“You are bottle-feeding a kitten called Susan at two in the morning while wrapping her in our son’s baby blanket.”
Greg glanced at the kitten.
