CHAPTER 3: THE NIGHT EVERYTHING WENT WRONG
The fever didn’t go away.
It didn’t spike dramatically at first. It crept.
Slow. Silent. Cruel.
Like it was waiting for me to be tired enough not to notice.
Lily’s skin grew warmer in my arms sometime after midnight. I remember checking her forehead once, then again ten minutes later, then again because I didn’t trust my own judgment anymore.
Each time, it felt hotter.
Each time, my fear grew heavier.
Noah was crying again in the bassinet beside me—his voice hoarse now, weaker than before, like even he was running out of energy to exist.
I was running out of everything.
Time.
Sleep.
Clarity.
I stood up too fast and immediately felt the world tilt.
For a second, I had to grab the wall just to stay upright.
“Okay…” I whispered to myself. “Okay. Just breathe.”
But breathing didn’t help anymore.
Breathing was just something my body was doing automatically while everything else collapsed.
I grabbed my phone.
My hands were shaking so hard I nearly dropped it.
Daniel’s last message still sat there like a ghost:
“She’ll be fine. Don’t panic.”
I stared at it.
Then at Lily.
Her tiny face was flushed now. Her breathing uneven.
Not stable.
Not okay.
Something inside me snapped—not loudly, but cleanly, like a thread finally reaching its breaking point.
I dialed him.
Ring.
Ring.
Voicemail.
I tried again.
Ring.
Ring.
Voicemail.
On the third attempt, he answered.
Music in the background again.
Laughter.
A glass clinking.
“Claire,” he said, irritated. “What now?”
My voice came out broken.
“Something is wrong with Lily. Her fever is getting worse.”
A pause.
Then a sigh like I was ruining his night.
“Didn’t I tell you not to panic over every little thing?”
My chest tightened.
“This isn’t panic,” I said. “I think she needs a doctor.”
Another pause.
Then:
“You think. Or you know?”
That question should have been simple.
But I was exhausted.
Sleep-deprived.
Shaking.
And alone.
“I don’t know,” I admitted quietly. “That’s why I’m calling you.”
A long silence.
Then his voice softened slightly—not concern.
Annoyance pretending to be patience.
“Claire, listen to me,” he said. “You’re overwhelmed. It’s normal. You just need to calm down and stop escalating everything.”
I closed my eyes.
Behind me, Noah cried again.
Lily whimpered softly.
And something inside me began to fracture.
“I need you here,” I whispered.
A pause.
Then, colder:
“I can’t fly back because you’re anxious.”
The line went dead again.
This time, I didn’t move.
I just stood there holding the phone while the silence of the house pressed in from every direction.
Then Lily cried out sharply.
A new sound.
Different.
Painful.
My body reacted before my mind did.
I grabbed her immediately.
“Okay—okay—okay,” I repeated, pacing the room. “Mommy’s here, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—”
But I didn’t have anything.
No answers.
No help.
No backup.
Just a body trying to function past its limit.
Noah’s crying intensified too, as if responding to her distress.
Two voices.
Two emergencies.
One person.
Me.
I stumbled into the kitchen and opened the cabinet, searching for anything I could remember reading online.
Thermometer.
Medicine.
Anything.
My hands knocked things over.
A bottle fell.
Then another.
The sound echoed through the house like judgment.
I finally found the thermometer.
Shaking, I checked Lily.
I waited.
The number appeared.
My breath stopped.
It was higher than before.
Not dangerously high by hospital standards maybe—but high enough for a newborn to scare me into stillness.
I stared at it.
Then at her.
And for the first time, I said it out loud:
“I can’t do this.”
The words didn’t echo.
They just… fell.
Noah screamed louder.
Lily’s cry weakened suddenly—almost like her energy was draining.
My body went cold.
No.
No.
No.
I grabbed my phone again.
Emergency services.
My fingers hovered over the screen.
But I froze.
Because I realized something terrifying:
I didn’t even know how to describe what was happening anymore.
Everything had blurred.
Days without sleep.
Constant crying.
Fever.
Pain.
Exhaustion.
Isolation.
And the absence of the only other adult who was supposed to be here.
I sank to the floor again, holding both babies against my chest.
And for the first time since they were born, I cried.
Not quietly.
Not controlled.
But completely.
Because I understood something I had been avoiding for days:
If I didn’t get help right now—
something irreversible was going to happen in this house.
And there was still no one coming.
Somewhere in Europe, Daniel’s phone buzzed.
He glanced at it mid-dinner.
Another missed call.
Another message.
He sighed.
And turned it face down.
And back in the dark nursery, I made a decision I never thought I would have to make.
I reached for the phone again.
And dialed emergency services.
May you like
This time—
I didn’t wait for anyone to answer first.
