In Loving Memory of Yang (2012–2026)

There are cats who pass through your life, and then there are cats who become part of your life story. Yang was the latter.

For fourteen years, she was not just a pet. She was a constant. She was there before so many milestones, and she stayed through every chapter that followed. She watched a house become a home. She saw love grow. She saw a family form.

She had the rare gift of presence. She slept beside me for years, often on my head, claiming her spot without apology. She would gently poke me awake, as if reminding me that the day had already begun and she expected to be part of it. She stayed nearby, always within reach, always within sight. Her soulful eyes carried a quiet understanding, the kind only a long-time companion can hold.

Yangyang witnessed every season of my life. She was there when I got married. She was there when my child was born. She watched over my children when they were sick, keeping silent vigil in the room. When K came into the world, she was already there, observing, accepting, guarding. She welcomed my husband in her own unforgettable way, leaving him with a little “boop” on the nose, and then, over time, claiming his chest as her resting place. He pretended to dislike it, but now he misses it.

She was my first official cat. I did not know then how deeply a cat could anchor a person. I did not know that fourteen years later, losing her would feel like losing a family member all over again.

This year, I had quietly prepared myself. Fourteen is a long life for a cat. I knew it could be the year. I just did not expect it to be this early. I thought we still had time. I was planning to buy her a new costume, a better cat tree, a softer bed. I thought there would be more days to spoil her.

On her final day, I struggled to face the reality. Part of me hoped she would simply pass in her sleep. Not because I wanted her gone, but because I did not want her to struggle. I did not want to see her fight for breath. I avoided looking at her too long because I did not want to cry again.

But I went back. I spoke to her one more time.

I told her I loved her. I thanked her for everything. I told her she could go, that Mommy would be okay.

I thought she had already slipped away. Then she heard my voice. She gave one last breath. One last small kick. I did not realize in that moment that it was goodbye.

Now I understand. She waited.

She waited to hear my voice one last time.

Yangyang lived fourteen full years, wrapped in love. She was cuddled, cared for, spoken to, and cherished. She grew old in a home where she was never unwanted, never unseen. She left this world after hearing that she was loved and that it was okay to rest.

There is pain in this loss. There is the ache of an empty space on my pillow. The silence where her paws used to move. The absence of those familiar eyes looking back at me. There is the weight of knowing she will never poke me awake again.

But there is also gratitude.

Gratitude for every ordinary day she made sacred simply by being there. Gratitude for fourteen years of loyalty. Gratitude that her final breath was not alone, but accompanied by love.

Yangyang was the sweetest cat. The best cat. My first cat. My constant companion.

She was family.

Last week I held her one last time. The years she gave me cannot be taken. The memories cannot be erased. The love does not disappear simply because her body has.

Thank you, Yangyang.
For watching over my children.
For loving our family.
For staying beside me through every phase of my life.
For choosing us for fourteen beautiful years.

You can rest now.

Mommy will be okay. Not now but eventually. For now, I will grieve you but I will also set you free.