After the death of my two beloved cats, I had no faith in change. It has the ability to uplift spirits, but it also has the power to humble us. It was only when change was forced upon me that I realized that the worst misunderstandings can be the greatest gifts.

Nighttime had fallen upon my home. The lamp outside had long since flickered on; its dim beam peered through a small crack in the curtains of the bay window. Our cocker spaniel, loud and excitable, was nowhere to be seen. I was curled up near the bay window, on the loveseat in the living room, a thin blanket wrapped around my legs. One of the earlier Harry Potter books was set upon my lap, laid open on its spine like a turtle on its shell.

Bright white, roving lights flashed into my eyes through the crevice in the curtains. I didn't bother to look – the sound of a running engine, like a metallic heart echoing its beat on the earthen floor, was enough to warn me that my mother was home. I continued reading, although I was already distracted and my mind had begun to drift away from Harry's journey into the Chamber of Secrets.

It wasn't until I heard mother yell from the garage that I struggled to my feet and put my book aside, alarmed. She never called for me; if she needed help unloading groceries, she would always beep the horn of her car. I made my way to the room where the garage linked to the rest of the house, glancing around the place that has been my home for more than two years.

It had been silent here since our cats died. Jax had gone first, torn from us by old age. Adam followed suit: I found him under the futon in my bedroom, dehydrated and meowing to us desperately. Memories of our time together reminds me of the horror of that discovery, the memory of which continues to haunt me. He had been my best friend.

Although I appreciated the freedom that resulted from no longer having indoor cats – for example, being able to keep the front door open without worrying that Jax would attempt to escape outside, where the highway would put his life in jeopardy. Regardless of the pros, the house felt gloomy and depressed without Adam's presence. It was as if fate had wrenched the beating heart from my living body and demanded that I deal with it on my own. Against all odds, I was still functioning, but there was now a hollow emptiness where my heart ought to be. I felt alone, but I had convinced myself that it was for the best - my future life may not allow a place for a cat. I convinced myself it wouldn't work out with another cat, had trained myself early on that there was no hope. There would be less pain this way.. but I was still alone.

I reached for the garage door and pulled it open. Mom stood in front of me, silent. I looked up and couldn't process what I was seeing. I didn't want to look at what was settled in her arms, a blank space near her chest that I avoided glancing down at. I could only look at my mother's face, her eyes both warm and calculating. She wore a mask I did not recognize, reddening her cheeks, creasing the skin of her forehead, and lifting her lips into an uncertain smile. My mother wore hope.

It turned its head to look at me, a bundle of unbelievably soft white fur with large patches of smooth, jet black plates. Cradled in my mothers arms, it looked up at her, as a baby looks to its mother, a tiny pink nose pointed directly at her face. I cannot forget how innocent and intelligent its amber eyes were. It was looking into my soul – with adoration.

“What's.. this?” I managed to ask my mother, having held in the words until I could barely hold them inside of myself. The faint mutter sounded like it had been uttered from another person – outside of myself, not from my own lips. My limbs felt paralyzed, as though they were freezing over. The cat kept staring at me. It was as if I had a rat in my throat and it could sense it.

The remainder of the evening blurred into emotions and silence so tense I might have reached out and touched it. Mom explained how she had stopped at Pet Smart to get fish plants. This two year-old cat, Diego, had caught her attention: as she passed him, he rolled onto his back, displaying his stomach and writhing in place with want. She had been looking for an orange tiger like Jax and Adam had been, she told me, but this cat had caught her heart and demanded to be brought home. She couldn't refuse.

Diego was supposed to be my early Christmas preset. The shocked little nub called my brain could hardly process this. I numbly excused myself from her presence and stumbled upstairs. I sensed the cat's eyes following my every step, boring into the back of my head, pleading for acceptance. I didn't made it to my room. I curled up at the top of the stairs and wept for hours. I didn't understand how mother could be so cruel to me, how easily she had betrayed me. Her words echoed in my mind: “I thought you'd like this. He can help us..”

I slowly came to the realization that my mother was also grieving. Only then did I realize how selfish I was being. This cat, too, had a life, and it was wrong to ignore that it was also alone. Its previous owners were rasing a child the was allergic to cats. They didn't want to give him up, but I didn't want him. Yet it needed a family, and perhaps I needed hope. It was an exchange. And mother needed love – the support of a family, and the strength that gave her. The burden of supporting a family is nothing compared to the love that can overwhelm grief.

I made this about mother, reminded myself that she needed me – that she needed us both. This cat would help her. The dog also needed a new idol. The spaniel thinks himself a cat: his best buddy was Jax, and he didn't get along well with other dogs. I couldn't let the dog down, either. This cat could not – would not – return to the pet store.

I rose to my feet and returned downstairs to my mom, the sleeve of my jacket stained with tears. This was an opportunity that I took to make our lives better in some way. To this day, the cat – whom we renamed Oliver – is now as much a family member as Jax and Adam were. I still mourn for Adam, as my mother does for Jax. But now that empty chamber in my chest has been filled again. Let this story be a reminder to you that change is an opportunity to better yourself. The journey to it may hurt, but the result is precious.