32. Nora
NORA
Tyler leaves Thursday morning for a four-day road trip, and he does not want to go.
He's got his gear by the door, Harper in his arms, pressing kisses to her face while she giggles and grabs his hair.
"I hate leaving you guys," he says for the third time.
"We'll be fine. It's four days."
"Four days is a long time."
"Tyler." I take a step closer and adjust Harper's pajama top. "Go. Play hockey. Come home Sunday. We'll be here."
He kisses Harper one more time, then hands her to me, kissing me longer than he probably should when he's about to leave, but I'm not complaining.
"Text me everything," he says. "What Harper's doing, what you're doing, anything that changes—"
"I'll text you. Now go before you miss your flight."
He leaves reluctantly, looking back twice before getting in his car, and I'm left in the doorway with Harper waving at the empty driveway.
Thursday is normal. Our usual routine: tummy time, reading books, playing with toys, and an afternoon walk in the stroller. I text Tyler photos throughout the day, and he responds between meetings.
Tyler: She's getting so big. Miss you both already.
Me: You saw us five hours ago.
Tyler: Still missing you.
Thursday night is harder. The house feels different without Tyler's presence in it, a specific quiet that isn't peaceful, just absent. I make dinner for myself, feed Harper her puréed vegetables, and do bedtime alone. She goes down fine, but I find myself checking my phone more than I need to.
Tyler: The hotel room sucks. I wish I were home.
Me: You have a game tomorrow. Focus.
Tyler: I’d rather focus on you.
I fall asleep on the couch, the baby monitor beside me.
Friday starts normally. Harper is fussy during breakfast, not eating as much, but I figure she's just off because Tyler's gone. We play on the floor, and when I pick her up around two o'clock, I notice she's warmer than usual.
I take her temperature.
100.2.
Not terrible, but not nothing either. I grab my phone and fire a text to Tyler.
Me: Harper's running a low fever. 100.2. Keeping an eye on it.
Tyler: What? Is she okay? Should you call the doctor?
Me: It's low. She’s probably teething.
Tyler: Keep me updated. Please.
By evening, Harper's fever has climbed to 101.8, and she's crying inconsolably. Nothing helps, not rocking, not singing, not her favorite toys. And then she throws up.
All over herself, all over me, all over the living room rug.
"Okay," I say, very calmly, even though my heart is racing. "Okay, sweetheart. Let's get you sorted."
I call the pediatrician's after-hours line while stripping Harper out of her soiled clothes. The nurse asks about fever, vomiting, how long it lasted, and if she’s had any diarrhea; her conclusion is a stomach bug.
As soon as she finishes giving me advice, I text Tyler.
Me: Stomach bug confirmed. Thrown up twice. Fever at 101.8. The pediatrician says to monitor and keep her hydrated.
Tyler: I’m coming home.
Me: You have a game tomorrow.
Tyler: I don't care. Harper's sick.
Me: Tyler, I've got this. She's okay. It's just a bug.
Tyler: You shouldn't have to do this alone.
Me: I’m not alone. I have you on the phone. Now stop panicking and focus on your game.
Friday night is rough.
Harper wakes every hour, either throwing up or dealing with diarrhea, sometimes both. I'm doing laundry constantly, changing sheets, and trying to get her to take sips of Pedialyte. She's miserable, crying weakly, her little body hot against mine.
I text Tyler updates through the night.
Me: She threw up again. Fever holding at 101.5.
Me: Diarrhea this time. I changed sheets. She's sleeping.
Me: She's crying a lot. This is rough.
Tyler: I hate that I'm not there. I'm so sorry, Red.
Me: Not your fault. Sleep if you can.
Tyler: I can’t sleep knowing you're handling this alone.
By Saturday at 6 a.m. I haven't slept. Harper's finally sleeping fitfully in her crib, her fever still present but not climbing. I'm sitting on the nursery floor with my back against the wall, too tired to walk to my room.
Tyler: How is she?
Me: Sleeping. Her fever is stable. I think the worst is over.
Tyler: And you?
Me: Tired. But okay.
Tyler: I’m so sorry I'm not there.
Me: We're okay. I promise.
By Saturday afternoon, Harper's slightly better. She’s keeping liquids down, the vomiting has stopped, and her fever is slowly breaking. She's weak and clingy, wanting to be held constantly, but she's improving.
I spend the afternoon catching up on laundry—so much laundry—and cleaning the house back to a habitable state. Harper watches from her bouncer, too tired to do much more.
By evening, she's almost herself, reaching for her toys, smiling weakly when I make faces, taking her bottle without a fight. Her fever has broken completely.
I get her down for bed at seven-thirty. She goes easily. I stand in the nursery doorway for a long time, watching her breathe, relief washing through me.
We made it through.
Then I sit down on the couch and notice that I'm feeling off. Achy. Nauseous. Head pounding.
"No," I mutter, pressing my hand to my forehead. "No, no, no."
I'm warm.
My phone buzzes next to me.
Tyler: We won 4-2. Got an assist. How's Harper?
Me: She's better. Sleeping peacefully.
Tyler: And you?
I stare at the message and debate whether to tell him the truth.
Me: Tired but managing.
Tyler: Get some sleep, Red. I'll be home tomorrow night.
Me: Can't wait.
I set my phone down and curl up on the couch with a blanket.
I've caught whatever Harper had.
Of course, I have.
Sunday is going to be interesting.