Blue Sky Days, by Beth Sherman, Salted caramel mocha frappuccino

Before she went missing, my mother used to say that spending time at the Shabby Tabby Cat Café, in Sayville, was like a slice of heaven. Cats sleeping in fluffy oversized boots. Cats nibbling treats. Cats watching other cats chase butterflies on YouTube. All the animals have been rescued from unfortunate situations, according to Rianne, the owner. She wouldn’t say what that meant, but I kept thinking of a TV show I saw where an old lady died at home and her cats started eating her after 24 hours. All the cats at the cafe are available for adoption, which Rianne told us is a better experience than going to a shelter and seeing your future fur baby caged. It cost $20 per person, per hour, which is expensive but you get free beverages. We liked to arrive at 11, so we could get the comfortable seats, upholstered armchairs with a view of the cat tree scratching posts.

We did this on Blue Sky Days when my mother said Good morning, did you sleep well,  when she took a shower, and asked me how work was going. I always took two anti-histamines before setting out. I’m not a cat person. As a kid, I’d requested goldfish but when my Dad bought a tank the fish kept leaping out anytime anyone left the top uncovered.

My mother didn’t want to adopt a cat – I’d offered – though she enjoyed watching them go about their lives.   

The last time we went to the Café – three days before she took off – it smelled like kitty litter and a couple of cats had eye infections. On the wall was a chalkboard, updated daily, showing the number of adoptions – 1,074 – since the café opened in 2018.

 I wish someone would adopt me, my mother said plaintively, sipping her Irish Breakfast tea.

What do you mean? I asked, knowing exactly what she meant. In the last few months, I’d become a mean parent, telling her what she could and couldn’t do, limiting, restricting, cajoling, pleading, reminding. Ironic, since I don’t have kids.

You know I hate living with you, Lauren. If someone here adopted me, I could move out.

She looked around the café, at the mother telling her son not to pull some poor cat’s tail, at the teenage volunteer with a nose ring, at the elderly couple petting a Siamese, as if this were a real possibility.

You can’t live by yourself anymore.   

I’d voiced this sentiment so often that it ceased to have meaning, like when you stare at a word so long it starts looking weird.

Well, I’m going to stay right here she announced loudly, picking up my peppermint iced coffee and chewing my straw. I’m not leaving.

The problem with Blue Sky Days is I never knew how long they’d last. I saw Rianne look over at us and wondered what it was like to be a married business owner with siblings who helped out in the store.

You can’t make me go, my mother shouted.

Before she came to live with me, my mother had almost set her apartment on fire because she heated a pot of chicken noodle soup, then forgot all about it. 

A grey cat with black stripes rubbed against her ankles and leapt into her lap.

Oh, said my mother, startled. Oh, my.

The cat had eerie green eyes. Do you like Miss Spinks? Rianne said, coming over. She’s very gentle, very friendly.

Aren’t you a pretty girl? my mother said, stroking the cat’s downy fur.

I wondered what it felt like to be Miss Spinks. Nestled close to my mother’s body. Content. Beloved.

About the author

Beth Sherman has had more than 150 stories published in literary magazines. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on X, Bluesky or Instagram @bsherm36.

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