They have gathered in my living room to celebrate a human that does not yet exist.
I count fourteen of them, packed onto my furniture, cooing at a woman whose lap has swollen into a warm dome I would very much like to sit on. Nobody offers me the good chair. They have hung paper spheres from my ceiling, an obvious provocation, and draped a banner across the wall where I sharpen my claims to this house.
They pass around tiny garments. Absurd. A creature so small it has not arrived, and already it has more soft folded things than I do, and I have earned mine.
There is a game. My human writes guesses on paper about the size of the belly, wraps string around the dome, laughs too loudly at nothing. All of it aimed at a thing that cannot purr, cannot hunt, cannot even hold its own head up. I have done all three since before I opened my eyes.
They eat pale cake. They weep, a little, at a woman filling out. I have watched humans weep at far less and comfort themselves far worse.
Here is what none of them understand. This new one will scream in the dark and be adored for it. It will destroy their sleep and be forgiven. It will demand warmth, softness, and total attention, and receive all three without lifting a paw.
They think they are throwing a party. They are training my replacement.
So while they photograph the ribbons, I climb into the very center of the gift table, settle onto the softest folded blanket, the one meant for the small usurper, and close my eyes.
Mine now.