Who Needs a Relationship When You Have a Cat?

Chapter 16

Toward evening, Ai Qing was dispatched to call Mom down for dinner.

He tapped on the door; an answer came at once.

“Coming.”

Yao Qiang stepped out of the master bedroom in a set of house-pajamas. Even with the change of clothes, the short-haired woman radiated competence.

Yet the moment she crossed her own threshold, the iron-willed executive softened—especially when she saw her son.

“Come give Mom a hug.”

At five-foot-nothing, Yao Qiang had been overtaken by her boy back when he was in eighth grade, but post-absence hugs were non-negotiable.

She embraced him, then eased half a step back and glanced toward his bedroom. “Where’s Xiao Yu?”

“In my room.”

“Why isn’t she out here?”

“There might be other cats in the yard; safer if she stays with me.”

“Let me see.”

Like Grandma, Yao Qiang adored kittens, and Xiao Yu was the undisputed favorite. Work usually kept her too busy for a cat-fix, so with Xiao Yu actually in the house, dinner could wait. She brushed past her son and headed straight for his room.

Ai Qing felt a flutter of nerves.

But when his mother pushed the door open, Xiao Yu was still in cat form and he exhaled in relief.

“Meow~”

Xiao Yu hopped off the bed, zipped to Ai Qing’s ankle and head-butted it. Then she crouched, looked up at Yao Qiang, stretched to sniff her foot, and rubbed against it too.

No one who likes cats can resist a snow-white puffball like Xiao Yu; they always kneel to run fingers through that cloud-soft fur.

Ai Qing’s favorite spot is the outer ridge of her hind leg, right by the haunch—peak texture.

Yao Qiang prefers the head, especially the patch just behind the ears.

Grandma Lang Xiangying is less fussy: she plants an entire palm on the cat’s back and massages like she’s kneading dough.

“Feels chubbier than New Year,” Yao Qiang murmured, tickling Xiao Yu’s tummy. “Almost one, isn’t she?”

“Haven’t weighed her lately,” Ai Qing said, crouching to stroke the cat’s back. “The fifteenth is her first birthday.”

“All right, let’s eat.” Yao Qiang straightened, satisfied, and walked out.

Ai Qing glanced at Xiao Yu, now sprawled belly-up on the rug, and scratched her chin. “Be good. I’ll come back up later.”

. . .

The five-member family reunion dinner was uneventful.

Ai Qing seldom speaks at the table.

Grandma, beyond reminding Grandpa to go easy on the liquor, is equally quiet.

After Yao Qiang recapped office news—her recent promotion to Deputy Sales Director and the headaches that came with it—the conversational baton passed to father-and-son pair Ai Lisong and Ai Zhongguo.

In his heyday Ai Lisong had been the star writer at a local Hangzhou publishing house and a member of the provincial Writers Association. Now retired, he practices calligraphy, plays chess with the neighborhood old-timers, does tai-chi, and minds the family’s Aiying Supermarket.

During New Year his grandson introduced him to TikTok; he’s been hooked ever since.

Over dinner he and his son hold court on global politics, market trends, new literary releases, and the day’s headlines, sipping baijiu and pontificating with expansive gestures.

The meal stretches from five-thirty to seven before it finally winds down.

Then comes the part Ai Qing looks forward to most.

“Grandma, let me help!”

He follows Lang Xiangying into the supermarket storeroom, hoists a bag of kibble and a sack of freeze-dried treats, and together they head for the small courtyard outside the ground-floor balcony.

Yao Qiang tags along; the three of them step outside.

Their yard is tiny—barely ten square meters once you account for the staircase to the second-floor balcony.

Walls enclose it on every side, with a single gate for access.

The moment Ai Qing sets foot outside, Grandma taps a metal ladle against an iron cooking pot—clink, clink—and pairs of luminous eyes pop onto the wall-tops with a soft rustle.

More keep arriving.

Ai Qing rips open the kibble and freeze-dried food and dumps everything into the pot.

Grandma stirs with a long spoon while Yao Qiang fetches a stack of small bowls.

The glints on the wall resolve into cats—fifteen or sixteen of every size, color, and breed.

They hop down, well-mannered, and form a polite semicircle around Lang Xiangying.

“Here, Maple Beauty first.” Ai Qing sets down the inaugural bowl and ushers over a pretty tabby whose markings resemble a maple leaf.

“Next, Sheriff.”

“Taikun, your turn.”

“Hey, where’s Big Orange?”

The daily roster of strays varies, but a few regulars are imprinted on Ai Qing’s memory.

The hefty ginger tom who showed up every day during New Year is conspicuously absent.

“Go open the gate—he’s probably there,” Grandma chuckles.

Puzzled, Ai Qing unlatches the door—and a yellow blob waddles in.

“Whoa!”

“Meooow!”

“When did you inflate?” Ai Qing laughs, squatting to lift Big Orange and nearly throwing out his back.

“He eats like a horse,” Grandma says. “Shut him outside till the others finish; otherwise he’ll raid their bowls. Only took him a few months to balloon.”

“Time for a diet, buddy.” Ai Qing deposits him back outside and closes the gate.

“Has Xiao Yu eaten?” Grandma asks.

“I’ll open a can for her when I go up.”

Xiao Yu’s mother had once been brought here by other strays, belly swollen, bones jutting.

Lang Xiangying thought the cat was simply obese—until, after one good meal, she went into labor in the courtyard.

Despite a night of coaxing and care, the malnourished queen died giving birth; three of her four kittens soon followed.

Only Xiao Yu greeted the next sunrise, and even she was so frail that Grandma raised her indoors until she turned the corner.

Ai Qing fell hard for the scrap of white fur, and Xiao Yu became family.

“Enjoy your dinner, guys.” Ai Qing stretches, then tells Grandma and Mom, “I’ll go check on Xiao Yu.”

He glances up at the second floor—and freezes.

In his bedroom window sits not the cat, but a girl—Xiao Yu in human form, crouched on the desk, nose pressed to the glass as she curiously watches the courtyard below.

Holy crap—why is she human at this hour?!