The Birthday I Came Home Early

"What is going on here, Evelyn?" I stepped closer, wanting to pull her into my arms, but she shrank back, her hands dripping with soapy water.

Before she could answer, a weak, raspy cry drifted from the living room. It wasn't the healthy, demanding cry of a one-year-old. It sounded broken.

I abandoned the kitchen and sprinted into the living room. The TV was blaring a football game to an empty couch. In the corner, shoved away from the noise, was Jamie’s playpen. I dropped to my knees. My son was lying on his back, his little chest heaving. His face was a terrifying shade of crimson, and his pajamas were soaked with sweat.

I placed the back of my hand against his forehead and yanked it back. He was burning up.

"Evie!" I shouted, scooping my son into my arms. His skin radiated heat like a furnace. "He's boiling! How long has he had this fever?"

Evelyn rushed into the room, tears finally spilling over her cheeks. "Since yesterday. I wanted to take him to the doctor, Colin, I swear I did, but..."

"But what?!"

"But I said it was just a little teething fever!" a sharp, authoritative voice interrupted.

I turned to see my mother, Judith, standing in the hallway. She looked immaculate. She was wearing a brand-new silk blouse, a gold necklace I didn't recognize, and fresh salon highlights. She held a glass of white wine, looking at me with a forced, painfully artificial smile.

"Colin, sweetheart, you're home early," my mother said, stepping forward to kiss my cheek. I pulled away, shielding Jamie from her. "You're overreacting. Babies get fevers all the time. I've raised three of you; I know what I'm talking about."

"He needs a hospital, Mom," I growled, feeling Jamie tremble in my arms. "And why the hell is half the county in my backyard? It's his first birthday, and he's sick!"

"It's a celebration!" she waved her hand dismissively. "Family came to support him. Evelyn is just being dramatic about the baby. Honestly, Colin, she's been so hysterical lately. I've had to handle everything."

I looked from my immaculate mother to my trembling, exhausted wife. The $3,500 I sent every month was supposed to pay for a housekeeper, organic groceries, and whatever Evelyn needed to rest.

"Grab the diaper bag, Evie," I said, my voice leaving no room for argument. "We are going to the ER. Right now."