She looked down as a ball of fur stroked her leg. A momentary jolt of surprise seized her as the little thing circled her legs, rubbing against them affectionately. She was alarmed by the warmth of it. Stooping down, she petted the cat. It purred under her touch.

A Norwegian Forest cat. A friendly animal. She looked to see whether the window in the kitchen had been left open, but it was fastened securely. She’d have noticed if it weren’t—the bitter cold outside would’ve made it obvious.

The Wegie, after having its fill of love, left her standing alone and cozied up on a pillow near the fireplace. She stood and watched it as it curled up into a furball.

Her mother's house hadn't changed a bit. Still the posh hangings, that overwhelming parlor, the paintings, that hideous Greek bust, and an inexhaustible list of foreign curios in the study. Only the kitchen was as plain as a blank notebook, perhaps because it had been redone only a few years ago and whoever took it upon himself to do it didn't care much for the antiquity of it.

In her prime, her mother was an ardent follower of the trends. And yet, at some point, she seemed to have gotten stuck in some time.

She poked the fire to warm the room up for the cat. On the mantlepiece was that ancient snow globe her mother always brought out on Christmas. It was a wedding gift, a man and woman dancing in their bridal attire.

Her mother used to say it would bring good luck to the children when it was their time to marry and keep her own marriage a happy one. This Christmas, it was quite pointless to bring it out. Her father had died an year ago. And she was the only one among the children to show up. The rest were all married, while she never planned to.

In the corner of the room stood a tiny, richly adorned Christmas tree. She had always hated it, even as a child. It was too extravagant. She preferred it without all the lavish ornamentation. But her mother was adamant on making a bride out of it.

The cat purred softly, wrapping its tail ever so close to itself. She watched it sleeping for a while, before deciding to check on her mother finally.

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Her mother’s bedroom door was ajar, as usual. She sat by the bed, its plain white sheets giving the room a stark, almost clinical feel, as if her mother was dying. She sat there in a sort of silent mourning, fiddling with her thumbs. Long ago, she'd lost the courage to look her mother in the eye.

"Erin...the water", her mother muttered, stirring.

She quickly fetched a glass, then sat back down. The room fell silent again, save for the faint sound of her nails etching into each other.

"Is that... your cat?", Erin asked, hesitantly, a nervous drop of sweat formed on her forehead.

Her mother nodded with a coy smile. It pricked Erin.

She found herself drifting back to that rainy day when she stood under the maple tree in the yard with an umbrella as the downpour overwhelmed the world.

And before her lay the carcass of the kitten, helplessly sprawled with its head a little bloody but getting washed away in the merciless cold rain.

In the lifeless eyes of that kitten, she saw her own reflection and she felt that it was her, lying there, helpless.

"Why?", she asked her mother after a pause.

"Why?", her mother repeated, perplexed.

"I thought you didn't like cats."

"Well, she is beautiful, isn't she?. So sweet and lovely", her mother chuckled, thinking of her dear Wegie that lay asleep in the parlor.

Erin bit her lip. That was it, wasn't it?

That morning, atop the tree, when Erin had fed a sickly little kitten, she felt she'd never been kind before. This was her first act of goodness in the world. And a tiny flicker of hope, a desire to give back had emerged within her. As the little kitten dragged itself to the bowl of milk and slowly lapped it up, she smiled with a warmth she had not yet known inside herself.

"Why do you care so much?", her mother had asked, disapprovingly.

"It'll go away when it's eaten", Erin had replied, her eyes lowered, her hands clasped behind her back.

Even though Erin never met her eyes, she still remembered the scowl on her face that morning.

"That ugly thing!", her mother had snarled, slamming the door.

The "ugly thing" was thrown off the tree branch with a hoe that evening. Its head split open on impact. It was far too weak to recover from the fall.

No one mourned it, of course. The clouds perhaps? Because they didn't stop pouring the whole next day.

There were no questions to be asked, no atonements to be made, no apologies, no anger, no outbursts of frustration, no exchange of bitter words. For, after all, it was a mere "ugly thing".

"I'm moving to Milan next month. I don't think I'll be here for next Christmas, Mother", Erin said quietly, her voice drained of life.

"Eh? Well, when will you be back?", her mother asked, stirring slightly.

Erin pursed her lips, still staring at her hands, fiddling in her lap.

"I can't say", in truth, she never intended to return, "I'll go to Paris and then Auvers... perhaps."

"Why? What for?", her mother started up.

"For Van Gogh", she whispered, hesitantly, almost choking up.

"Who?"

"Van Gogh. The painter?", she spoke nervously, visibly agitated.

"Vincent van Gogh, you mean? Are you... out of your mind? For some dead man?!", her mother blasted, forgetting all about her earlier weakness.

"Well...", she tilted her head, smiling bitterly, digging her nails into her palms, "He's beautiful, isn't he?"