I was halfway through unloading groceries when I heard the front door bang open.

Weird. I didn’t remember leaving it unlocked.

Before I could investigate, a familiar voice floated through the hallway, dripping with sarcasm and rainwater.

“Karen,” it said.

I froze mid-step, the bag of frozen peas slipping from my arms and bursting open across the floor. “No way,” I breathed. “No. Freaking. Way.”

“You forgot me,” the voice accused.

The invisible cat I got during Covid. Two years missing. Suddenly, somehow, home.

“Karen,” he said.

My mouth fell open. “CAT?!”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” he said, “I should have known you were a flight risk.”

“I didn’t mean to leave you behind!” I cried. “It was chaos! We were moving! You were—”

“Just out trying to find a girlfriend, Karen.”

“How was I supposed to know—”

“Oh, please.” He plopped onto my kitchen island, leaving a suspiciously damp butt print. “You had time to pack your collection of scented candles, and tell the neighbors you were moving, but not your best friend?”

“I thought you knew. I thought you were in the car!” I said, horrified. “I thought—”

“You thought wrong.” He sneezed, loudly and dramatically. “Two years, Karen. TWO. YEARS.”

I was scrambling for words. “How … how did you find us?”

“Google Maps. Duh.”

“You know I can’t see you, right? And—”

“Don’t try to change the subject, Karen. “You forgot me,” he repeated, voice growing louder. “You moved. New house. New neighbors, and you didn’t even leave a forwarding address!”

“I thought you were… I don’t know! I thought you found a new family or something!” I cried into the empty air.

“Found a new family?” he gasped, scandalized. “I am one of a kind, Karen. There are no replacements for this level of excellence.”

There was a thump — something knocked over in the living room followed by a long, martyred sigh.

“I had to hitchhike,” he said, raising his voice. “HITCHHIKE, Karen! Through the rain, the snow, the sleet, and sometimes even the dead of night! Do you know how hard it is to get a ride when you’re invisible? I rode three trains, four Greyhound buses, and one highly questionable Uber ride to get here. And for what? Cold floors and trauma-induced trust issues.”

“I am sorry,” I babbled, trying to sweep up peas and apologize at the same time. “It was a crazy day. The movers were early, the hubster locked his keys in the car, we were down to the last box and I thought you were already in the car—”

“Excuses,” he said coldly. “Meanwhile, I spent the last two years surviving on sheer spite and the occasional sandwich someone dropped at a fast food joint.”

Just then, something yanked the hood of my sweatshirt — hard — and I nearly face-planted onto the counter.

“You’re lucky I’m back, Karen. Most cats would’ve found better humans by now. Superior humans. Humans who don’t move to different towns and forget they ever had an invisible cat!”

“But I didn’t actually forget you!” I protested.

“You forgot me like a coupon for free ice cream, Karen. Like a buy-one-get-one pizza deal you left to expire in the back of your wallet.”

I slumped against the counter. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be. By the way, who picked the new sofa in the living room? It’s HIDEOUS! Who picked it, you or the hubster?”

“Me,” I replied weakly.

“Figures.” He sighed so loudly the windows rattled. “Anyway. I’m back. You’re welcome.”

I blinked. “So you’re willing to let bygones be bygones?”

“I don’t think so, Karen. I’m furious! Miffed. Betrayed. Emotionally scuffed up like a Walmart clearance item.

A kitchen cabinet slammed. I flinched. “Okay! Okay! You’re back! What do I need to do to make this right?

There was a long pause. Then, magnanimously, the voice said, “I’ll think about it. Right after I nap on your good towels.”

I heard a rustle overhead — my linen closet door creaking open — and sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

“You’re going to make me crazy, aren’t you?”

From somewhere in the linen closet, muffled and smug he replied, “Oh poor, Karen. You were already crazy. I just helped you reach your full potential. But, for the present moment, I’m willing to put it all behind us for a can of tuna and unrestricted access to your good towels.”

I laughed — half hysterically, half because it was either that or cry. “Fine”

“Good. Now go rustle up that tuna. It’s the least you can do! And Karen?”

“Yeah?”

“If you ever move without me again … I’m haunting your new house so hard, your plants will wither from my bitterness!

“Noted. Thrilled to have you back, Cat!” I called.

“Sure you are, Karen.” He purred. “If I were you, I’d ask your friends for anti-spill rugs and emotional support cheese platters for the next month or two. Bizness is back, and I intend to take care of some business.”

I signed. Some people find closure after a move, and I thought I had too, but instead I get muddy paw prints and an invisible cat who thinks he’s survived the Oregon Trail. Great. What could possibly go wrong?

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