Chapter 12 - Lily’s Fever Changed the Way Catherine Saw Michael
Lily developed her first real fever at seven months.
102.4.
I panicked.
Not elegantly.
I called the pediatrician twice.
Michael was forty minutes away.
He arrived in twenty-eight.
Not speeding, he insisted.
I chose to believe him.
Lily was flushed, miserable, clingy.
The pediatrician believed it was viral and gave us clear instructions.
Fluids.
Medication.
Monitor breathing.
Call if symptoms changed.
Michael stayed.
Not because I invited him explicitly.
Because I said:
“I don’t want to do tonight alone.”
He answered:
“Okay.”
No speech.
At 1:00 a.m., Lily finally slept.
Michael sat on the floor beside the crib.
I sat in the chair.
Neither of us wanted to move.
At 2:15, her temperature dropped slightly.
At 3:40, I fell asleep.
When I woke at 5:10, Michael was still on the floor.
Back against the wall.
Eyes closed.
One hand resting through the crib bars near Lily’s foot.
I watched him.
The image hurt.
Because another hospital morning lived inside me.
The first one.
The morning he had not been there.
For months I believed any good thing Michael did with Lily would automatically be compared against that absence.
This morning was different.
I did compare.
But the comparison did not erase the present.
It showed me change.
The first night Lily needed him, Michael stood outside the door.
Tonight, he had stayed beside the crib when nobody was watching.
Lily stirred.
Michael woke instantly.
“Temperature?”
“Better.”
He checked his phone.
“Medication in twenty minutes.”
I stared.
“What?”
“You made a schedule?”
He looked defensive.
“Is that bad?”
I almost laughed.
“Sometimes organization is allowed.”
“Thank God.”
By morning, Lily was smiling weakly again.
Michael made coffee.
Terrible coffee.
I drank it anyway.
Then he said:
“I need to ask something.”
My body tightened.
He noticed.
“Never mind.”
“No.”
I took a breath.
“Ask.”
“Would you ever have dinner with me?”
Silence.
“Not co-parent dinner.”
“I understood.”
“No pressure.”
I almost smiled.
“You’re ruining the pitch.”
“I’m trying very hard not to pitch.”
I looked toward Lily.
Then at him.
“Not yet.”
Michael nodded.
“Okay.”
No disappointment weaponized.
No argument.
That was as important as the question.
Three weeks later, I called him.
“Friday.”
“What?”
“Dinner.”
Silence.
Then:
“Okay.”
He sounded so careful I nearly laughed.
“One dinner.”
“One.”
“No expectations.”
“None.”
“No Amber discussion.”
“Gladly.”
“Daniel is babysitting.”
Michael groaned.
“He’s going to inspect me when I pick you up.”
“He should.”
Friday came.
Michael arrived on time.
Daniel opened the door.
Looked him up and down.
“Return her by eleven.”
Michael stared.
“She’s thirty-two.”
Daniel shrugged.
“Family rules.”
I laughed.
Michael did too.
We went to dinner.
Nothing magical happened.
That was what made it good.
We talked.
Ate.
Disagreed about a movie.
Walked two blocks.
Michael did not ask what the dinner meant.
Neither did I.
When he dropped me off, he said:
“Goodnight, Catherine.”
“Goodnight.”
No kiss.
No pressure.
Inside, Daniel waited.
“How bad?”
I smiled.
“Annoyingly fine.”
He nodded.
“That’s dangerous.”
May you like
Maybe.
Or maybe it was the first normal thing we had done in a very long time.
