My baby had a 104-degree fever when my husband called his mother from the ER. She arrived, shoved his coat into his hands, and screamed that he “didn’t sign up for this much stress.” I didn’t argue. I gave my husband one choice—and watched what he did.
My daughter was four months old the night I realized my husband thought fatherhood was optional.
Her name is Nora.
At 11:30 that night, she felt hot against my chest.
Not normal baby warm. Burning.
I took her temperature twice because I didn’t trust the first number.
My husband thought fatherhood was optional.
104.1.
I called our pediatrician, trying to keep my voice steady while Nora screamed against my shoulder.
“Take her to the emergency room now,” she said. “Don’t wait to see if the fever comes down.”
Ethan was standing in the kitchen in pajama pants, staring at me.
“What did she say?”
“Take her to the emergency room now,”
“We need to go.”
He closed his eyes.
“Could this night get any worse?” he muttered.
I was too worried about Nora to think too deeply about what he meant.
***
By two in the morning, we were still sitting in the ER waiting room.
“Could this night get any worse?”
Nora had screamed herself hoarse. Her cries had become these weak, broken sounds that made my stomach twist every time I heard them.
I sat in a hard plastic chair with her tucked against me, rocking back and forth.
I was terrified.
Ethan paced near the vending machines.
Her cries had become these weak, broken sounds.
Every few minutes, he checked his phone.
Then the clock.
Then his phone again.
Finally, he rubbed both hands over his face.
“This is ridiculous.”
Every few minutes, he checked his phone.
“I know, but we’re in the right place for her, and they’ll get to us soon.”
“You don’t get it.” He glanced at his phone again. “I have the presentation at nine.”
“You’re worried about the presentation? Our baby is burning up.”
“I can’t walk in there looking like I haven’t slept,” he replied.
“Right,” I said. “That would be the real emergency.”
“You don’t get it.”
He glared at me.
“Don’t start.”
I almost laughed.
Our four-month-old had a 104-degree fever, and apparently I was starting something.
His jaw tightened.
“That would be the real emergency.”
Then he pulled out his phone.
“I’m going to make a call.”
“To who?”
He walked away without answering.
I turned my attention back to Nora.
“I’m going to make a call.”
Twenty minutes later, the automatic doors opened.
Sylvia walked in.
Ethan’s mother was wearing a wool coat over what looked like pajamas. Her gray-blond hair was tied back, and she had clearly gotten dressed in a hurry.
For one stupid second, relief washed through me.
Sylvia walked in.
I thought Ethan had called her because he was scared.
I thought maybe she had come to sit with us.
Then she walked right past me.
She didn’t even look at Nora.
That was when the little bit of relief I’d felt disappeared.
I thought maybe she had come to sit with us.
Whatever Ethan had called his mother here to do, it wasn’t to help Nora.
Sylvia grabbed Ethan’s coat from the chair beside me and shoved it toward him.
“Come on,” she said. “I’ll take you home with me.”
I stared at them.
Ethan didn’t look surprised.
And suddenly his phone call made sense.
“I’ll take you home with me.”
