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.