My baby had a 104-degree fever when my husband called his mother from the emergency room.
She arrived in a wool coat thrown over what looked like pajamas, walked straight past me and our sick four-month-old daughter, grabbed her son’s coat, shoved it into his hands, and announced that she was taking him home.
Then she said the words I would never forget. “He didn’t sign up for this much stress!”
I didn’t argue with her.
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t cry.
Instead, I gave my husband one choice. And then I stood there and watched what he did.
My daughter’s name is Nora. She was four months old the night I realized that my husband had somehow convinced himself that fatherhood was optional.
It was 11:30 p.m.
I was holding Nora against my chest when I noticed how hot she felt.
Not normally warm.
Not the ordinary warmth babies have when they’re sleeping. She was burning. I immediately grabbed the thermometer. I took her temperature once.
Then again.
I didn’t trust the first number.
The second reading was even worse.
104.1 degrees.
My heart dropped. Nora was crying against my shoulder, and I could feel her little body trembling. I called our pediatrician. I tried to keep my voice steady while explaining what was happening, but my voice kept breaking.
The doctor didn’t hesitate.
“Take her to the emergency room now,” she told me. “Don’t wait to see if the fever comes down.”
I hung up and turned toward my husband.
Ethan was standing in the kitchen wearing pajama pants.
He looked at me.
“What did she say?”
“We need to go to the emergency room. Now.”
He closed his eyes.
Then he muttered something that, at the time, I didn’t fully understand.
“Could this night get any worse?”
I was too scared for Nora to think deeply about it.
I grabbed the diaper bag.
He grabbed his keys.
And we left.
At the time, I thought he was simply overwhelmed.
I thought fear had made him say something stupid.
I thought maybe, once we got to the hospital, he would become the father I believed he was.
I was wrong.
By two in the morning, we were still sitting in the emergency-room waiting area.
Nora had screamed herself hoarse.
Her cries had become weak, broken little sounds, and every time I heard one, my stomach twisted.
I sat in a hard plastic chair with her tucked against me, rocking back and forth.
I was terrified.
Ethan paced near the vending machines.
Every few minutes, he checked his phone.
Then the clock.
Then his phone again.
Finally, he rubbed both hands over his face.
“This is ridiculous.”
I looked at him.
“I know this is taking a long time, but we’re in the right place for her. They’ll get to us soon.”
“You don’t get it,” he said.
He looked at his phone again.
“I have the presentation at nine.”
For a second, I honestly thought I had misheard him.
“You’re worried about the presentation?”
He looked irritated.
“Our baby is burning up.”
“I can’t walk in there looking like I haven’t slept,” he said.
I stared at him.
“Right,” I replied quietly. “That would be the real emergency.”
His jaw tightened.
“You don’t get it.”
“No,” I said. “I think I’m starting to.”
“Don’t start.”
