The Fever Night of Fate

I still remember that night as if it were yesterday. The air was stifling, the heat from the tin roof pressing down, turning our small house into an oven. My twin daughters, just over a year old – who should have been sound asleep in peaceful dreams – suddenly tossed and turned, whimpering.

Their cries pierced the silence, jerking me awake. I reached out and touched my child’s forehead, only to freeze: it was burning hot, her skin flushed red, her eyes half-shut, her breath ragged, fast, as if it would cut off at any moment. I turned to the other one – the same condition, except her lips had already started to turn purple.

My wife panicked, clutching the child tight, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her voice trembled:

– “Honey… she’s burning up! We need to take them to the hospital right now!”

My heart pounded, cold sweat running down my back. At that moment, only one thought consumed me: we must save our children at all costs. I rushed to my mother’s room – their grandmother.

The door creaked open, and she stepped out, looking calm as if nothing was happening. My voice shook, almost pleading:

– “Mom, the babies have a very high fever. Please let us take them to the hospital…”

She glared, waving her hand dismissively:

– “Children having fevers is normal. You were the same when you were little. I used herbal leaves, some oil, and a few pills, and you got better. Running to the hospital in the middle of the night? People will laugh, thinking parents don’t know how to take care of their own kids.”

Her words hit me like a bucket of cold water.

My wife burst into tears, kneeling on the floor, clutching the baby, begging:

– “Mom, please, I’m terrified… Please let us take them to the hospital. I beg you!”

But she stood firm, her tone sharp and unyielding:

– “No! They’ll stay home. I can handle it.”

I stood frozen. In our house, her word was law. Since childhood, I had learned to bow my head under that authority. The memories of scoldings, the beatings whenever I dared to resist – they still haunted me. That fear followed me into adulthood, making me, even as a father, too afraid to go against her will.

That night, my wife and I hovered between despair and helplessness. We stayed up the entire night, taking turns wiping their bodies, pressing cold towels, fanning them. The sound of our babies’ shallow, labored breaths filled the room like a cruel countdown. Each time they whimpered, my heart twisted painfully. I prayed for dawn to break, to give me a chance to act.

But when the first light crept in through the window, the nightmare deepened. The babies didn’t improve – they grew worse. Their skin turned bluish, their breathing faint, like flickering lamps about to go out.

I was horrified. Something inside me snapped. I couldn’t stay still any longer. Without a second thought, I scooped both children into my arms and bolted for the door.

– “Doctor! Save my children!” – my wife’s scream tore through the air.

The neighborhood was thrown into chaos. Some rushed to call an ambulance, others tried to support my wife, who was collapsing in grief. Meanwhile, their grandmother sat calmly inside, chewing betel, muttering to herself:

– “It’s just a little fever, no one dies from that. Why make such a fuss, like the house is on fire…”

When the doctor arrived, one look at the children made his face go pale. He immediately began resuscitation on the spot, then ordered an emergency ambulance. The blaring siren filled the air, drowning out my wife’s sobs.

I sank to the ground, my legs giving way, my hands trembling uncontrollably. Only one question echoed in my head over and over: Why did I let my mother stop me? Why was I so weak?

At the hospital, time seemed frozen. My wife and I sat on the cold hallway floor, holding hands tightly, our eyes glued to the closed door of the emergency room. Every sound from inside made my chest tighten.

Finally, the doctor came out, his voice heavy:

– “Both children have severe pneumonia, high fever lasting many hours, with signs of complications. If they had been brought in last night, they would not be in such critical condition now.”

I was stunned. My wife wailed, collapsing on the floor. His words were like a blade cutting straight into my chest, leaving me breathless.

But their grandmother remained cold, arms crossed, her tone accusing:

– “It’s not my fault. You two don’t know how to raise children, that’s why this happened. Kids get sick, they get fevers – what’s the big deal?!”

The entire hospital room fell silent. I looked at her – the woman who gave me life – and felt a surge of bitterness and resentment like never before.

My childhood memories came flooding back: the times I lay feverish, only to be scraped with coins and covered with herbal poultices; the injuries rinsed with nothing but salt water; the desperate pleas for a hospital trip that only earned me beatings and harsh words: “Don’t be so weak, it’s nothing serious!”

Back then, I survived by sheer luck. But now, my own children were trapped in the same vicious cycle.

I turned to my wife. She leaned on my shoulder, her swollen eyes filled with despair, whispering through sobs:

– “Honey… I can’t take this anymore. I can’t let our children live in this fear. I don’t want them to gamble their lives ever again…”

I clutched her hand, my throat burning:

– “I promise. From now on, things will be different. I will take you and the children to live separately, no matter what people say. I cannot let history repeat itself.”

That night, sitting by the hospital bed, watching my little girls struggling to breathe, I felt my heart shatter. But deep inside, I knew this was a turning point. I was no longer the fearful son cowering under his mother’s shadow. I was a father, a husband – with one duty only: to protect my family.

From that moment, I carved a vow into my heart: no matter the cost, I will never again allow anyone – not even my own mother – to steal away my children’s chance at life.

Disclaimer: This narrative reflects the experiences and observations of the individuals involved. The situations, dialogues, and emotions are shared as they happened or were perceived. Readers should immerse themselves in the story and its emotional impact without questioning its authenticity. Any similarities to real people or real-life events are naturally possible and should be interpreted as part of the reality depicted, not as coincidence.