Carrying Life, Carrying Love

by Madame Francis

In my last post, I touched on what it meant to be pregnant while navigating homelessness and sex work. What I didn’t share then was how another part of my family—my cats—fit into that chaos. People told me to give them up, that it would be easier. But this post is about why I didn’t, and how their presence carried me through some of the hardest days.

When we were evicted, I admit I had a delusion of control over the situation. The American Dream—a stable nuclear family living in stability—had been torn away and I soon found that I couldn’t control much. During the chaos, my cats were a constant.

I’d been coaxed for so long to get rid of them.

“Give them a better life; you can’t afford them.” Told that it’s easier to let them go.

Easier on who? Me, I would fall deeper into a state of depression—losing my home and part of my family was too heavy a weight to bear. Disregarding the general consensus from loved ones, our cats motel-hopped with us. The first place we stayed—a specific Motel 6 I notoriously have issues with—ended up keeping our deposit and banning us. They stated that the cats destroyed the sheets—which is honestly impossible—and that our room smelt horrible (granted, I did forget to dump the litter from the trash can after packing up).

Before the eviction, we purchased two travel kennels and a play pen for them to travel and play in. This became their temporary home for months. With the remaining funds I had, I ordered an Uber XL, lugging two cats, myself, my partner and our little belongings to the county office. They had to help—I was pregnant and now homeless, after an altercation and being banned from the motel.

We spent hours alternating watching and caring for the cats who sat in kennels on the sidewalk with food and water bowls. I explained our situation and the worker helped with emergency funds. We also raised funds on social media from mutual aid during the in-between time allowing us to Uber to a bank, and then to another motel for the night. We always had to pay $25 extra per night for them. The new place was more lenient, but it was worth it regardless. Anything to stay loyal to them. After a successful night, we got our deposit back and paid a friend to give us a ride to an AirBnB before work.

The new place we found was an oasis—an AirBnB retreat in a fat house about thirty minutes from the chaos that was our old lives. The cats remained loyal: barely running off when we let them stretch their legs at the parks our kids played in.

It wasn’t always easy though. We dug into our BnB funds when we had to buy supplies ‘cause our Siamese, Milky Chance, had nervous diarrhea in his kennel. When we stopped to clean it at a liquor store parking lot near a busy road, he, of course, wanted to roam. Later, our Tuxedo cat, Stella Artois Jr., also doo-dooed out of anxiety. But this BnB was so pet-friendly, the host allowed us to let the cats roam around the house, even offering to cat-sit them for a reasonable fee while we secured housing. The BnB was somewhat of a luxury. For a small fee, we had snacks, food from the fridge, laundry access, a bed that reclined. We took advantage of the jacuzzi while playing our music on Bluetooth.

Once, in the beginning, I tried to leave them. We had to be out of the apartment we were evicted from by 6:00 A.M. or face the sheriff 's presence. We left early; no room or place to go to ourselves, let alone for the cats to go with us. We decided to let them become street cats. They were used to the neighborhood and were indoor/outdoor cats already. We thought it was best for them. Staring at them through the window of the U-Haul broke me.

I was so torn—am I being selfish by wanting to keep them? I can’t afford them; it’s what's best. They both gazed unknowingly at us, anticipating us to come back and open the front door for them. They sat on the ground in front of the door and we peeled off, heading to our storage space.

A day passed and we relented. We’d literally been there for them since we coached their mom through giving birth at home. They’re registered as our emotional support animals. We couldn’t abandon our family. Pulling up, we saw them on a table outside, laying in wait for our arrival. We packed them into their kennels with many long meows in protest haunting the air. Their loyalty—not leaving and running off into the streets, but patiently waiting for us—taught me that love is truly patient, trusting, and loyal. They make me feel like I have a family extending beyond my children. Their presence lifted the weight of many dark times. They’ve made us laugh, carried our sadness, melting it away in purrs and kneading bread upon us with their paws.

Home is the memory of them staying overnight waiting for us. It’s not an apartment run by a slumlord.

Home isn’t always a place, it’s who is waiting for you to come back.

And as I carried new life inside me during those nights, their presence reminded me that I wasn’t carrying the weight of survival alone. My kids, my partner, my unborn baby, my cats—we were all still a family, no matter what roof we were under. That truth kept me moving forward, even when everything else felt uncertain.