I have nine cats and a wife. No kids, never. Kids are either way too disgusting or dangerously enticing. I once stumbled upon my niece, a pint-sized dynamo in wet underpants shouting “mummy weeet!” Truly undignified.

Then there was the time I encountered a little girl with intricately woven French braids—let’s call her Isabel—sporting two ribbons so bright they could even light up my day. She was playing hide-and-seek in the park like a tiny ninja on a mission of cuteness. I swooped in for a hug, only to nearly stuff her head into my pants. Innocence is just irresistible.

The irresistibility turned into, as you’ve guessed it, obsession. I ended up marrying the mother, Clara, who is not the sharpest. She collected cats from the neighbourhood. Those with unsettling smiles and eyes that seemed to always follow you around the room. Fortunately they don’t have real eyes to judge the little secret between me and Isabel. But who is it to judge really? An outsider, unaware, uninformed and inexperienced, cannot fathom the joy of sharing playful moments with a young girl.

The cats’ behaviour has grown more erratic over the years, however. They would gather in corners, hissing at shadows, their fur standing on end. As if they were privy to something lurking beneath our roof. Doesn’t matter. I am unstoppable. At least until she learns to fight, which she never will while I’m around to shield her. Even then she won’t want to, because I am just as irresistible.

By the way, after these years I still refuse to call Isabel my daughter. It’s immoral to prey on your daughter. She remains a bittersweet reminder of a choice I made—a choice that has haunted me like the relentless gaze of Clara’s cats.

My name is Kevin. Heavenly Kevin, as my friends call me.