I never thought I’d have to compete with a bunch of cats for my own mother’s attention. But here we are.

Growing up, my mom was never the overly affectionate type, but I always thought she’d soften once she became a grandma. When I had my first daughter, Sofia, I was so excited for them to bond. I imagined my mom spoiling her, reading bedtime stories, maybe even offering to babysit now and then.

Instead, every time I invited her over, she had an excuse. “I can’t, sweetie, I have to feed the strays.” Or, “Oh, I’d love to, but I just trapped a new one and need to take it to the vet.”

At first, I didn’t mind. My mom had always loved animals, and she’d been feeding the neighborhood strays for years.

But one day, it hit me just how deep her obsession ran.

It was Sofia’s third birthday. I had planned a little backyard party with balloons, a homemade cake, and just close family. My husband’s parents came, my sister and her kids showed up, even a couple of my close friends made time to celebrate. But my mom? Nowhere to be seen.

I called her, thinking maybe she’d just lost track of time.

“Hey, Mom, are you on your way?” I asked, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she sighed, “I’m so sorry. One of the strays had kittens, and I need to make sure they’re safe. I just can’t leave them right now.”

I clenched my jaw. “Mom, it’s Sofia’s birthday.”

“I know, I know, but these little ones—”

I hung up before she could finish.

That night, as I tucked Sofia into bed, she looked up at me with those big, innocent eyes and asked, “Grandma didn’t want to come?”

I forced a smile. “She wanted to, baby. She was just busy.”

Sofia nodded sleepily, already moving on, but I couldn’t. Something in me snapped that night. I realized my mother wasn’t just a busy woman—she was making a choice. And that choice wasn’t us.

I tried to understand.

Over the next few weeks, I tried to reason with myself. Maybe taking care of the strays gave her a sense of purpose. Maybe she saw it as her responsibility since no one else would step up.

So, I decided to make an effort. I offered to help her.

“Mom, why don’t I come with you to feed the cats?” I suggested one afternoon.

“Oh, honey, that’s sweet, but it’s a lot of work,” she said dismissively. “You have Sofia to take care of.”

I bit my tongue. As if I didn’t know that.

Still, I showed up at her place one morning, unannounced. What I found shocked me.

Her backyard was no longer a backyard. It was a full-blown cat sanctuary. Dozens of makeshift shelters lined the fence. Bowls of food and water were scattered everywhere. And the smell—oh, the smell was unbearable.

When I walked inside, it wasn’t much better. There was cat hair on every surface, and more than a few strays had made themselves comfortable on her couch, bed, and even the kitchen counters.

“Mom… this is out of control,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady.

She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s fine. They need me.”

“What about Sofia?” I asked, frustration bubbling up. “What about me?”

She sighed, as if I were the unreasonable one. “You have your own life. The cats don’t.”

That was it. That was the moment I realized I wasn’t going to change her mind.

So I let go.

I stopped inviting her to things. Stopped trying to get her to spend time with Sofia. If she wanted to dedicate her life to the cats, fine. But I wasn’t going to keep waiting around, hoping she’d wake up one day and suddenly decide to be the doting grandmother I had imagined.

Months passed. My mom and I still talked occasionally, but it was mostly small talk. She didn’t ask much about Sofia, and I stopped giving her details. It hurt, but I was done fighting for a spot in her life.

Then, one day, karma did its thing.

A neighbor had filed a complaint about the number of cats on my mom’s property. Animal control got involved. The city gave her a warning, but when she didn’t comply, they took action.

Most of the cats were rounded up and taken to shelters. Some were relocated. A few were even adopted. My mom was devastated.

She called me in tears, not knowing what to do.

“They took them,” she sobbed. “They just took them.”

I should have felt bad for her. I should have been sympathetic. But all I felt was a dull sense of irony. She had ignored her family, dedicated everything to these cats, and now… they were gone.

“What do I do now?” she whispered.

I took a deep breath. “I don’t know, Mom. Maybe… maybe now you can start being a grandmother.”

She didn’t answer.

Weeks passed, and I didn’t hear much from her. Then, one afternoon, she called me.

“Hey,” she said hesitantly. “Would you and Sofia like to come over for lunch this weekend?”

I nearly dropped the phone.

“Really?” I asked, skeptical.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I’d like to see you both.”

I didn’t know what had changed in her, but I wasn’t about to question it. Then she told me that she got sick and realized that there’s no much time left to spend with her family, especially with Sofia.

That Sunday, we went over. Her house was different. Cleaner. Quieter. There were still a couple of cats—ones that had been legally allowed to stay—but the overwhelming chaos was gone.

And for the first time in a long time, my mom actually looked at Sofia. Talked to her. Played with her.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t a grand transformation. But it was a start.

Looking back, I realize something important. People don’t always show love the way we expect them to. My mom wasn’t a warm, doting grandmother—at least, not naturally. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t learn.

And maybe, just maybe, losing the thing she thought she loved most was the only way for her to see what she had been missing all along.

If you’ve ever felt like someone in your life prioritizes the wrong things, know this—sometimes, life has a way of setting things straight.

And sometimes, love just needs a second chance.

If this story resonated with you, share it with someone who might need to hear it. And don’t forget to hit like!