She’s about to reply, but Tom points at me with a steak knife. “What’s its name anyway?” He means the kitten. I watch the tabby stretch a paw mid-sleep. “Jane usually picks the person who’ll name her cats.” She rests her chin on her knuckles. “Our cats.” Our cats. I hang onto that declaration. Looks like I’m a father of six—now seven—cats. This is bigger than Jane asking me to marry her. These cats are her babies, and she’s sharing them with me.
