Gregory had chosen the resort and booked the flights, which he reminded me of more than once. The night before we were scheduled to leave, everything unraveled. Lila woke up first, crying softly.
When I touched her forehead, my heart sank. She was burning up. Within minutes, Micah was awake, too pale, whimpering, and then suddenly vomiting all over his sheets.
Nurse-mode kicked in instantly. I stripped beds, took temperatures, both were over 102, started hydration protocols, called the pediatrician’s after-hours line, and rotated between cold compresses and soothing words. I moved through the chaos with practiced efficiency, even as worry coiled tightly in my chest.
Gregory wandered into the kitchen mid-morning, freshly showered, sipping coffee from his favorite mug. “What’s all the noise?” he asked, glancing briefly toward the hallway. “The kids are sick,” I said, not looking up as I wiped Micah’s face.
“High fevers. Vomiting. We may need to postpone the trip.”
He froze.
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