Let’s Keep It Real
One gray morning I woke to a faint rustling coming from the closed bedroom upstairs — the room I hadn't opened since Anne passed away three years earlier. At first I figured a stray neighborhood cat had somehow gotten in, so I swung my feet out of bed, sighed, and nudged the old wooden door open a crack.
Anne's bedroom looked exactly as I'd left it the day she died: faded floral curtains, the old oak dresser in its place, and the lingering trace of her favorite perfume in the stale air. Everything frozen in time, like a photograph nobody wanted to update.
In the darkest corner, on top of a neat stack of winter clothes, sat a tiny, furry animal with round, shiny black eyes. Beside her were two blind, helpless pinkish pups. But something about the mother didn't look like a housecat — her face was short and flat, her skin had small folds along the sides. It suddenly clicked: this wasn't a kitten at all but a flying squirrel.
I crept closer, lifting the edge of the wool blanket as quietly as I could. The mother didn't flinch. She just stared at me with a steady, unblinking gaze that felt, strangely, like it could see right through me.
One of the pups shifted and squeaked softly for warmth, and I realized how tiny and fragile they were — blind, almost hairless, and clearly only hours old. They'd been born in my house while the room sat locked and empty.
My hand stayed frozen, blanket edge pinched between my fingers. For reasons I couldn't explain, I couldn't take another step into that room. Not then. Not with the family huddled there.
I stood in the hallway holding my breath for a long, awkward minute, trying to let my brain catch up to what my eyes were telling it. Finally I let the blanket fall back into place, closed the door gently, and padded downstairs.
I didn't want to abandon them, but I also knew enough to be careful. So I called the state wildlife hotline and explained, as clearly as I could, that there was a small animal with young in my upstairs bedroom.
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