Derek’s Unexpected Responsibility: A Family Secret

🔴 I STARTED SOBBING WHEN DEREK SAID HE’D TAKE CARE OF MOM’S CAT

I almost didn’t hear him over the clatter of dishes in the too-bright kitchen.

He NEVER liked Mr. Whiskers. Said he was allergic, and Mom practically re-homed herself just so she could keep that grumpy ball of fluff. Now, suddenly, Mr. Whiskers is Derek’s responsibility? “He’ll come live with us, it’ll be just fine,” he said, all calm and helpful while I’m still trying to pack Mom’s lavender-scented sweaters.

I swear, a buzzing started in my ears, like a trapped fly, and everything felt… wrong. He used to complain about the cat hair, the scratching post, the tuna smell. Now he wants Mr. Whiskers? And what was that look he gave Sarah, Mom’s *best* friend, when they thought I wasn’t looking?

The lawyer’s coming tomorrow to read the will. I don’t care about the money – I just want her back, you know? But something about Derek’s fake grief…

He just handed me a glass of water, all solicitous, and I saw it – a tiny scratch on his hand, fresh and pink.

👇 Full story continued in the comments…
The water tasted metallic, as if the glass itself held some secret, sinister flavor. I pushed it away, my throat suddenly closed. “What happened to your hand?” I managed, my voice thin.

Derek flinched, a flicker of something – guilt? – crossing his face before he smoothly recovered. “Oh, Mr. Whiskers. He got a little… feisty, earlier.” He offered a weak chuckle. “Guess he’s not too thrilled about the change of scenery.”

But something felt off. The scratch was too neat, too… deliberate. And Mr. Whiskers, despite his grumpy demeanor, was usually a lover, not a fighter. He might swat, but a cat that spent most of the day sleeping didn’t make fresh cuts on hands.

That night, sleep evaded me. I tossed and turned, replaying Derek’s words, his gestures, that unsettling look he gave Sarah. Finally, I got up and snuck into the kitchen. The house was silent, heavy with the absence of Mom.

I found Mr. Whiskers curled up in his usual spot on the windowsill, bathed in moonlight. I gently stroked his fur, feeling the familiar rumble of his purr. He was smaller than he should be, his ribs slightly prominent, as though he hadn’t been fed regularly. My stomach lurched.

The next morning, the lawyer arrived, his face grave. The will was read, the usual formalities observed. Derek sat beside me, offering a comforting hand, his face a mask of sorrow. Sarah sat at the opposite end of the room, her face pale, her eyes meeting mine.

The reading concluded. Everything was divided fairly, and nothing seemed amiss. Then, the lawyer cleared his throat. “There’s one final codicil, pertaining to the care of Mr. Whiskers.”

My heart leaped into my throat. This was it.

The lawyer explained that Mom had made specific arrangements for Mr. Whiskers to be looked after, not by Derek, but by Sarah, her dearest friend, with a fund dedicated to his upkeep.

The lawyer turned to me, the truth of Derek’s lies beginning to unravel. Derek went white and looked from me to Sarah. The color drained from his face. He stammered something unintelligible before I caught Sarah’s eye.

“He’s allergic,” I announced. Sarah, looking at Derek with cold fury, confirmed it was a long-term condition.

As the lawyer asked if there was anything I wanted to add, I looked at Derek, his carefully constructed facade finally crumbling. The scratch on his hand flashed in my memory. In a sudden, cold wave of clarity, I knew what had happened.

I walked over to Mr. Whiskers, picked him up, and held him close. He purred into my chest. The lawyer looked on, waiting. I took a deep breath.

“I think I have some questions,” I began.