Tuppence the Timid Tortie

I’m standing at the ATM, mouth agape. I blink so hard I nearly give myself whiplash. A firm squint of the eyes. Are my eyes deceiving moi? I lean in closer, as if belief alone might force the numbers to rearrange themselves. Nope. There it is. A balance so plump it’s practically reclining in a velvet armchair. Legs crossed. Smug as you like. Not millions — but enough zeros to make my usual balance look like loose change down the back of a sofa. I glance over my shoulder. No alarms. No armed guards. No trickster yelling, “GOTCHA!” Just me. And the sudden, intoxicating possibility surging through my veins: I’m not skint anymore. “Well,” I say, straightening up, smoothing imaginary creases from my coat, “this changes things.” I should call the bank. I should report it. I should be a responsible adult. I do none of those things. Instead, I go home and open Amazon like a woman possessed. My finger hovers over the “Add to Basket” button with reckless abandon. A £200 curling iron. “Why?” I whisper to myself. “Why oh why?” I barely have the energy to straighten my hair; the idea of curling it feels completely beyond me. Click. An LED anti-aging face mask. The kind that makes you look like a budget superhero. Absurdly overpriced. I pause. My LED days are behind me. There isn’t enough ultraviolet light left in the world to save this face. Click. And then — because apparently I’ve lost all tether to reality — I buy a house. A new build. I physically recoil after doing so, like I’ve just licked something I found on public transport. “Why,” I whisper again, more urgently this time. “Why oh why oh why?” I loathe new builds with a burning passion. Those boxy, soulless spawn of starved imagination. And more importantly — I already own a house. I don’t need two. But it’s done now. Paperwork signed. Keys in hand. Like I’ve nodded along to a life I don’t remember agreeing to. “Do you want to see it?” I ask Mum, trying to sound like someone who makes rational financial decisions. She turns to me slowly. “Amanda… where did you get the money to buy a house?” Ah shit. I walked straight into that one. “Oh, you know,” I shrug, waving a hand with what I hope looks like casual affluence. “I’ve been saving.” It’s technically true. Just… not that much. Not on a lousy postal worker wage. She narrows her eyes. That look. The one that strips you bare of dignity and excuses. We walk down a hill, the sky a dull grey that feels oddly judgmental, and I point. “There,” I say. My house. Supposedly. “It’s… alright,” Mum says, ever one for being transparent. She squints. “The windows are a bit small.” She’s right. Suspiciously small. Mean, almost. Like the house is trying to hide something. Or keep something in. “Let’s have a look inside,” I say, forcing enthusiasm into my voice like breath into an already deflated balloon. She stops dead. “What—you mean you haven’t even seen the inside yet?” “… It was bought on a bit of whim.” She groans. Inside, it’s worse. So much worse. Bare walls. Bare floors. Echoes that ricochet off the emptiness like stray bullets No warmth. No life. Not even a flicker of potential. It’s not a home. It’s a house-shaped absence. A white, sterile prison where personality has been politely asked to leave. “Christ,” Mum mutters. “It’s like living inside a fridge.” There’s a noise from the back. A rhythmic… tinkering. I frown. Of course. I’d recognise that sound in any universe. I round the corner and there he is. My dad. Bent over the floor, builders bum proudly on display, completely unbothered by the fact he’s been dead for fifteen years. “Alright, Dad?” I say casually. As if this is normal. As if his death wasn’t one of the defining fractures in our lives. “Busy, love.” “Doing what?” I ask, expecting something sensible. Floorboards. Pipes. DIY beyond the grave. He pauses. “Just resuscitating the cat.” I freeze. “… What?” My stomach drops through the floor. “Not Monkey,” I whisper, already bracing myself. “Don’t be daft,” he says. Relief floods me — briefly. Because then I see her. Tuppence. Long dead. Long gone. A classic tortie. The epitome of scaredy cat. She spent most of her life under a coffee table, refusing affection, food, and basic participation in existence. And here she is. Still alive… but barely. She looks ancient. Which, to be fair, she would be. Roughly forty-four years old by now. Dad is crouched over her, gently pressing her tiny chest. “Come on, Tuppy,” he murmurs. And then — Oh no. Oh no no no — He leans down. Mouth to mouth. Short, desperate breaths into her tiny lifeless mouth. “Dad…” I say weakly. But he keeps going. “Come on, girl.” It’s horrific. It’s tender. It’s completely futile. And somehow, it’s the most alive thing in this dead house. We leave him to it. Because what else do you do? Outside, it’s darker. Colder than it should be. I start wandering. Down a cobbled alley that feels like it's watching my back. “Excuse me?” Ah. Here we go. Postie instincts kick in. I brace myself. Directions, no doubt. Comes with the territory. But wait — I’m not in uniform. No fluorescent shame. No satchel of responsibility. Just me. A couple approach, speaking in foreign tongues, their words firing like spittle from an overenthusiastic auctioneer. Too fast, too furious — I can barely keep up. I nod and smile politely — the universal I haven’t got a clue but I wish you well. The woman points at a building. “Oh—you want me to…?” She nods enthusiastically. Right then. Why not. What’s one more questionable decision today? Inside, the lobby flickers with life. People chatting. Moving. Existing in ways that feel strangely distant. And then — Him. A builder type. Cheeky grin. The kind that suggests he’s said something inappropriate within the last thirty seconds. “I like your scar,” he says, pointing at my chest. “Oh—this old thing?” I reply, attempting flirtation. “Just a minor operation.” His gaze drops. “… When’s it due?” I blink. “I’m sorry—what—” And then I see it. My stomach. Massive. Round. Undeniably… pregnant. Fully baked. “Oh no,” I whisper. On cue, water trickles down my legs. A slow, traitorous betrayal. “But—I—I don’t want another baby!” No one listens. No one ever does when it matters. “Need a lift to the hospital?” a voice calls. I turn. Young James. My savour. My knight in shining armour. Sat in his car like some kind of guardian angel of the night. “Oh—yes. Yes please. That would be… grand.” I scramble in. Relief floods me — until I notice the interior. Stickers. Everywhere. Hundreds of them. All saying the same thing: I hate women. “…Oh,” I say. I know I should keep my mouth shut, but I can’t help myself: “What’s with all the… stickers?” “There’s your first problem,” he replies coolly. “Women always think they know better.” Right. Okay. I nod slowly. “Of course. Silly me.” He’s off now. Ranting. Raving. Roaring. His usually kind eyes have turned ice cold. “Women are taking over,” he continues, voice sharpening, spiralling. “Everywhere you look — jobs, power, control. Taking our roles. Reducing us—” He’s worked up now. Properly going for it. Some Andrew-Tate-manosphere-level bullshit. “Men built everything,” he snaps. “Everything! And now we’re supposed to step aside? Be what— supporting characters in our own world?” He shakes his head. “No. No, that’s not how it works. You don’t just replace us.” “James,” I say carefully. “They don’t respect us anymore,” he goes on, ignoring me entirely. “They want it all. The control, the authority, the final say. And what do we get? Sidelined? Shunned? Disregarded?” He grips the wheel tighter. “They’re taking over the world — and no one is stopping it.” The car lurches forwards. He guns it, weaving like a man possessed. “I’d quite like to get out.” “You’re not getting away that easily,” he snaps. Fantastic. Kidnapped mid-labour by some woman-hating nutter. “James, please.” And then — Something shifts. Like a switch flicking. He exhales. Blinks. Softens. Back to the James I know. Sweet James. Calm James. James who used to chat me up, blissfully unaware that I was nearer his mother’s age than his own. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Too many podcasts.” Ah. That explains… everything. “They got inside my head,” he says, jabbing his temple. “I can see that,” I reply gently. “Happens to the best of us.” “I can help,” he adds, eyes falling on my bump. He opens the glove compartment and pulls out — A hacksaw. “I’ve watched a YouTube video,” he says, with unsettling confidence. “Of course you have.” “I know how to perform a clean cut.” “I’m going to decline,” I say firmly, pressing myself into the door. And then — Miraculously… my stomach deflates. A needle through a balloon. Air escaping from places I refuse to reveal. “Oh,” I say. A pause. “I must’ve eaten a large lunch.” “Carb baby,” he nods. Of course. Silence settles. I look at him. “Do you really hate women?” I ask. Because I need to know. He shrugs. “Of course not.” A beat. “I liked you, didn’t I?” And it lands. That familiar, uncomfortable truth. I sit back, staring out of the window as the world blurs past. The money that wasn’t mine. The house I didn’t want. The baby grown without my permission. The life I keep accidentally stepping into. All of it. Unquestioned. Unchallenged. Accepted. Allowed. Put there. Pressed in. Breathed into existence. And floating in the middle of it — Tuppence. The forty-four-year-old cat. Barely alive. My dad’s voice cutting through. “Come on, girl.” Breathing life into something that doesn’t belong. Again. And again. And again. And I realise, with a slow, unwavering clarity — I’ve been living under the table. Timid. Hidden. Silent. Watching. Waiting. Too afraid to claim my own air. A shadow, curled in the shape of the timid tortie. And in that reflection, it clicks — it was never taken from me. I let it go. Every time something didn’t sit right — and I swallowed it anyway. Every time I chose comfort over truth. Silence over self. Again. And again. And again. The hardest thing to bring back to life… is the voice you’ve spent years silencing.