2000 · Film Photography · Banqiao, Taipei County, Taiwan
Before the cats,
there was just the apartment.
A bed.
Two computers.
A single sofa.
Some IKEA tables and desks.
The bare minimum we slowly carried home, piece by piece.
We didn’t adopt them right away.
We waited until things felt a little more stable.
Until the space looked less temporary.
Until it felt like somewhere we might actually stay.
Only then did I start thinking —
maybe we could have a cat.
Pat hesitated.
Not because he didn’t like animals.
But because he didn’t know how long he would remain in Taiwan.
“What if we have to leave?” he asked.
“What if we can’t take them with us?”
He wasn’t afraid of responsibility.
He was afraid of heartbreak.
Loving something you might have to abandon felt cruel.
And honestly, he was right.
But still, something inside me wanted to.
Not furniture.
Not decoration.
Life.
Something warm and breathing inside the house.
Originally, we planned to adopt just one.
One would be simpler.
Through some connection, we were introduced to Mrs. Shi —
a woman known for rescuing stray cats and dogs.
She asked us many questions.
Where we lived.
What we do.
If we had experience.
If we were serious.
It felt less like adoption
and more like a background check.
Then she looked at us for a moment and said,
“You can adopt… but there’s one condition.”
She opened a door.
Two tiny kittens walked out.
One calico.
One tabby.
Two months old.
One following the other like a shadow.
“They’re sisters,” she said.
“They must stay together. I will not separate them.”
That was the condition.
Not one.
Both.
Always both.
And somehow, that felt right.
So we said yes.
To both.
To everything.
After we brought them home, we understood why.
They truly could not be separated.
If we ever closed a door between them — even just one door —
they cried like the world was ending.
Not meowing.
Crying.
Like grief.
Like panic.
As if separation itself was punishment.
They moved like a pair.
Eating together.
Sleeping together.
Growing together.
Every night, without exception, they curled into each other just like in this photograph.
Two small bodies pressed close.
As if the space between them simply didn’t exist.
Back then, we didn’t think about time.
We didn’t know how many moves, cities, and life changes they would quietly witness.
We didn’t know Ailing would leave at fifteen.
We didn’t know Meiling would stay with us for twenty.
And we didn’t know —
that one day,
they would somehow find their way back to us
as Baozi and Mantou.
When I look at this image now, I don’t just see two sleeping cats.
I see the moment our home became a family.
Before, it was just space.
After them, it became attachment.
Routine.
Responsibility.
Love that shows up every single day without asking.
They greeted us at the door.
Waited while we worked.
Sat beside us through arguments and laughter and long quiet nights.
They didn’t fix anything.
They simply stayed.
And because they stayed,
we learned how to stay too.
With each other.
Sometimes I think —
our first home didn’t really begin with walls or furniture.
It began with two sisters
who refused to be separated,
and accidentally taught us
what it means to belong.
Photo series: Where It All Began
01 Friends in B&W
02 Apartment Light
03 Cats
04 First Trip to Thailand