What cats and mothers have in common

Our home now has six cats. None of them were planned. They arrived the way life often does: quietly and unexpectedly. Most came because a mother cat was looking for shelter.

The latest is a small, sticky creature we have named Peanut. She appeared one evening, not obviously pregnant, begging just outside our door. Her meow was like a symphony of need. Day after day, she returned, as if she knew this was a place where her kittens might be safe. Eventually, we let her in. She gave birth under our roof and, with a patience that seemed almost timeless, nursed, guarded and raised her young.

Watching her, I found myself thinking of my own mother. On Mother’s Day, memory becomes my quiet companion.

My mother died on June 19, 2017, at the age of 80, but her presence lingers in the way I understand love. She was a teacher who gave up her career to raise two children, my brother and me, who sit on different ends of the autism spectrum.

Our needs could not have been more different. My brother required medical care, supportive education and constant supervision. His epilepsy brought unpredictability into the home, and his developmental challenges required patience of a kind that cannot be taught in textbooks. His world needed structure, repetition and protection.

I, on the other hand, did well in school. But that did not make me easier to raise. I needed stimulation, attention and a rich environment to grow into my potential. I demanded conversation, opportunity and, at times, a different kind of presence, one that could nurture curiosity without neglecting the needs of my brother. 

Between these two very different trajectories, my mother did something remarkable. She did not choose one child over the other. She expanded herself. She became, in a sense, two mothers at once – one attuned to vulnerability and care, the other to growth and possibility. She calibrated her responses, adjusted her expectations, and created a home where both her children, in their own ways, could become who they were meant to be.

That, I have come to realise, is the deeper nature of love. Not just sacrifice. Not just instinct. But an acceptance of diversity without judgment.  

Modern science offers us language for what many mothers have always known intuitively. The early relationship between a mother and child shapes the architecture of the developing brain. Through what we now call co-regulation, a mother’s presence helps stabilise a child’s emotions, gradually teaching the child how to regulate themselves. Patterns of attention, comfort and responsiveness are not fleeting – they are biologically embedded, influencing how children think, feel and relate to others for years to come.

In families like mine, where one child may need containment and another exploration, this attunement becomes even more complex. Yet it is precisely this adaptability that defines maternal care. A mother does not apply a single formula. She reads the child before her.

There is also a transgenerational dimension to this. The way we are cared for shapes the way we, in turn, care for others. Love leaves traces – neural, emotional, relational – that echo across time. It is not simply inherited through genes, but through patterns of behaviour, through what is modelled, repeated and remembered.

I see this in my wife, Joyce. There are moments when I realise that while I observe, she acts. While I reflect, she does. She is hands-on in ways that are both ordinary and extraordinary; supporting, guiding, steadying each of our five children in their own journey. She senses when to step in and when to step back. She carries, often quietly, the emotional weight of the family. Even now, with our grandchildren, she offers no expectation of reciprocity but is effusive with her time and effort.  

And in those moments, I see my mother again. This is what maternal instinct truly is: not just a biological drive, but a cultivated sensitivity. A capacity to read another human being deeply, and to respond with just enough care, just enough space, at just the right time.

Which is why I sometimes find myself pausing when I hear younger voices say they prefer animals to babies. I understand the sentiment. Animals can be easier to love. Their needs are simpler, their responses more predictable.

But watching Peanut, I am reminded that even in the animal world, motherhood is not about ease. It is about attentiveness. About persistence. About responding again and again, even when it is demanding.

Perhaps Mother’s Day is not just about gratitude, but about recognition. Recognition that love, in its most profound form, is not loud, but precise and adaptive. It is enduring. From a mother cat waiting patiently at a doorstep, to my own mother who held together a family of very different needs, and to my wife who continues that quiet work with her children and grandchildren, there is a thread that runs through them all.

Love, at its core, is the choice to love another more than one loves oneself.