I used to measure time in medicine doses and thermometer readings.
Every four hours. Every six. Half a teaspoon.
One crushed tablet dissolved in apple juice he was too nauseous to drink.
My son was two years old and terminally sick. Those words felt unreal in my mouth, like I was speaking about someone else’s child. But it was my baby—my sweet boy with the soft curls and the sleepy smile—whose tiny body was fighting something far too big.
I hadn’t slept properly in days.
Maybe weeks. I was surviving on adrenaline and fear.
I scrubbed the floors because illness has a smell. A sharp, sour scent that seeps into everything.
I stripped the sheets twice a day. I washed laundry before it could turn musty. I cooked meals no one was eating—soups that went cold on the stove, toast that dried on the counter.
I tracked medicine schedules like they were sacred rituals.
And my husband?
He acted like he was a guest in a hotel.
His only “job” was the daycare run for our older child, and even that came with sighs and complaints. He’d toss his keys on the counter like he’d just returned from war instead of a ten-minute drive.
One afternoon, I hit a wall.
I hadn’t showered in three days. My hair was greasy, my shirt crusted with medicine spills and tears—his and mine.
My arms ached from holding him upright so he could breathe easier.
“Can you just hold him for ten minutes?” I asked, my voice breaking. “I need to shower.”
My husband didn’t even sit up. He looked at me from the bed, annoyed.
“I wasn’t ready for kids,” he said flatly, then rolled over and pulled the blanket up.
“I’m exhausted.”
The air left my lungs.
We had planned this child. We had talked about names and nursery colors and family vacations. And now, in the middle of the worst storm of our lives, he was opting out.
It was the coldest thing I’d ever heard.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
