Chapter Two: The Fever No One Cared About
Maya knew something was wrong the moment Lily stopped asking for cartoons.
Lily was four years old, and cartoons were her morning religion. She loved colorful animals, silly songs, and anything involving dancing vegetables. Every day after breakfast, she would climb onto the sofa, wrap herself in a yellow blanket, and announce, “Mommy, my show is waiting.”
But that afternoon, Lily only lay on the couch with her eyes half-closed.
“Sweetheart?” Maya touched her forehead.
Heat pressed against her palm.
Maya’s chest tightened.
She carried Lily upstairs and took her temperature. The number made her worry but not panic. Children got fevers. She knew what to do. Fluids. Rest. A call to the pediatrician if it rose or did not improve.
She grabbed the medicine from the cabinet, measured the dose carefully, and helped Lily sip water.
Downstairs, Evelyn was watching a cooking show at full volume.
Vanessa was taking photos of herself by the window.
Maya came into the living room with Lily in her arms.
“Mom,” she said softly, because after marriage she had tried to call Evelyn that, even though the word never felt welcome. “Lily has a fever. Could you please help me watch her for a few minutes while I make something light for her to eat?”
Evelyn did not turn away from the television.
“What happened to her?”
“I think she caught something at preschool.”
Vanessa looked up from her phone. “Kids are always sick. That’s why I don’t babysit.”
Maya swallowed. “I’m not asking you to babysit. I just need ten minutes.”
Evelyn finally looked over.
Her eyes moved from Lily’s flushed face to Maya’s pregnant belly, then to the kitchen.
“You’re already standing,” Evelyn said. “Just make the food.”
Maya thought she had misheard.
“She wants me to hold her.”
“She’s spoiled because you hold her too much.”
Lily whimpered and pressed her face into Maya’s shoulder.
Maya felt anger rise, but she pushed it down. She had become skilled at swallowing words before they became arguments.
“Please,” Maya said. “I don’t feel very well either.”
Vanessa gave a short laugh. “Maya, you’re always tired.”
Evelyn reached for the remote.
“When I was pregnant with Marcus, I still cooked for twenty relatives. I didn’t collapse every time I had to boil soup.”
Maya stood there for a moment, holding her feverish daughter, feeling the weight of the baby inside her and the weight of the house around her.
“Okay,” she whispered.
She carried Lily into the kitchen.
At first, she tried to set Lily on a chair with a blanket, but Lily cried weakly and reached for her.
“Mommy, hold me.”
Maya picked her back up.
With one arm, she rinsed rice.
With one arm, she chopped vegetables.
With one arm, she wiped Lily’s nose, stroked her hair, checked her temperature again, and whispered that everything would be okay.
Her back ached. Her feet hurt. Her head felt light.
At three in the afternoon, she called Marcus.
He did not answer.
That was not unusual. Marcus spent most of his day in meetings. She sent a message instead.
Lily has a fever. I’m handling it. Please call when you can.
She stared at the message after sending it and wondered why she had added “I’m handling it.”
Maybe because she was afraid he would worry.
Maybe because she was afraid he would not.
An hour passed.
Then two.
Lily slept against her chest in short, uncomfortable bursts. Every time Maya tried to put her down, she woke and cried.
From the living room came laughter.
Vanessa was watching videos.
Evelyn had ordered a delivery package and called for Maya to bring it inside when the doorbell rang.
Maya looked down at Lily.
Then she looked at the front door.
Her body felt weak enough to fold.
“Could one of you get that?” Maya called.
No answer.
The doorbell rang again.
“Maya!” Evelyn shouted. “Someone’s at the door.”
Maya closed her eyes for one second.
Just one.
Then she carried Lily to the door.
The deliveryman looked surprised when he saw her carrying a sick child while heavily pregnant. He offered to set the package inside.
“Thank you,” Maya said, embarrassed by the kindness of a stranger.
When she returned to the kitchen, the rice water had boiled over.
She cleaned it.
Then the milk warmed too quickly.
She turned down the stove, but Lily began coughing again, and Maya stepped away to help her drink.
By the time she smelled the burn, it was too late.
White milk had bubbled over the pot and scorched around the burner.
Maya turned off the stove and stood frozen in the kitchen.
Something about that small failure broke her.
Not the insults.
Not the exhaustion.
Not even the fear for Lily.
It was the milk.
The stupid, simple pot of milk she could not even manage without failing.
Tears spilled down her cheeks silently.
Lily lifted her heavy eyes.
“Mommy sad?”
Maya kissed her forehead.
“No, baby. Mommy’s just tired.”
At six-thirty, the sky outside turned dark blue.
At seven, Maya’s phone buzzed.
Marcus: Leaving now. Sorry. Crazy day. How is Lily?
Maya typed: She still has a fever.
Then she erased it.
She typed: We’re okay.
Then she erased that too.
Before she could decide what to write, Lily coughed again and clung to her sweater.
Maya put the phone down.
May you like
She did not know that Marcus, stuck at a red light twenty minutes away, had already seen the first message from hours ago.
He did not know that by the time he reached home, the smell of burnt milk would tell him everything Maya had been too tired to say.
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