It worked!
They survived!
The sheer relief of escaping death clouded my mind completely.
I grabbed the shell-shocked Joan, snatched up the trash bin holding my babies, and fled to the storage room that very night.
The place was cramped and run-down, but looking at my five little kittens nestled on the makeshift bedding, it felt like paradise.
"Joan, get some rice water—these little ones must be starving."
Joan hurried off and returned with a bowl.
But no matter how we tried, the kittens refused to drink.
Watching them curl into pitiful little balls, Joan hesitated before speaking:
"Miss Henson, they are yours, after all. Maybe you should try... nursing them?"
A human nursing cats?
Was that even reasonable?
Then again, I did give birth to them.
I couldn't just watch them starve to death.
I expressed a bit of milk into a bowl.
The moment I did, all five kittens—eyes still sealed shut—scrambled toward it like they'd caught the scent of something irresistible.
The bowl was empty in seconds.
That's my offspring for you.
Survivors, just like their mother.
As I continued feeding them, my mind churned.
I'd lived a clean life. The only man I'd ever been with was Jonathan.
So why had I given birth to a litter of cats?
I combed through every detail before and after the pregnancy.
Diet? Normal.
Contact with anything strange? Nothing.
The only unusual thing was the day before I slept with Jonathan—I'd found a pure white stray cat in a corner of the garden.
I'd fed it some scraps of meat.
Could that cat have come to repay my kindness by gifting me five cat-children?
I was still puzzling over this when a soft, babyish voice broke through:
"Mama, hungry."
I thought I was hearing things.
I looked down—and nearly lost control of my bladder.
The five kittens who'd just been fighting over milk had transformed into five plump, pink-cheeked human babies.
My hand jerked. The bowl crashed to the floor.
Joan let out a shriek and dove behind me.
"Miss Henson! The cats—the cats turned into people!"
I swallowed hard. "I see that."
One moment they'd been fuzzy little furballs. The next—five chubby babies.
Now all five of them stared up at me with round, glistening eyes, their voices soft and milky:
"Mama, hungry. Eat eat."
Dear God, was this some kind of cosmic joke?
Bad enough I'd birthed a litter of kittens.
Now the kittens were turning into humans?
"Joan! The door! Lock the door!"
I kept my voice low, practically throwing myself at the entrance, fumbling frantically with the lock until it clicked shut.
Then I took a deep breath, turned, and approached the bedding.
Tentatively, I reached out and poked the cheek of the nearest baby.
Soft.
Warm.
A real, living child.
Still in disbelief, I asked again: "You... can talk?"
The baby I'd poked nodded vigorously and stretched out tiny arms:
"Mama, hold me."
The other four immediately chimed in:
Oh my God.
Five kittens had not only turned into humans—they could speak from the moment they were born?
What on earth had I given birth to?!
Once the shock faded, a strange maternal instinct surged through me.
Especially looking at those pudgy, adorable faces—my heart melted completely.
Cat, spirit, human—whatever they were, they were mine now. Madge Henson's children.
I snapped into action, cradling them one by one as I nursed them in rotation.
Perhaps because they were cats at their core, their appetites were surprisingly small.
