The Ex-Husband of Alice Langley

24

TAYLOR SWIFT
I sip my tea, feeling the steam open my stuffy nose a little. My recovery's been slow but steady, just a lingering cold left. Paris, on the other hand, hasn't been so lucky. Even though it's been weeks, she's still throwing up every morning and battling the same stuffed nose I am.

"She should've recovered by now," I mutter to myself, watching her from across the room as she curls up under a blanket, looking exhausted.

"I don't get it," Paris says, groaning. "Why am I still so sick? Everyone else is fine."

I give her a sympathetic look, trying to reassure her. "Maybe the flu hit you harder, sweetie. Your body's still recovering."

But something nags at me. Paris is young, healthy. This flu should've been long gone. I keep sipping my tea, trying to shake the thought that maybe this isn't just the flu.

Then it hits me.

I glance at Paris again, watching as she rubs her stomach absentmindedly between bouts of nausea. It suddenly makes sense in a way that sends my heart racing.

Her eyes are slightly glazed, a mix of fatigue and annoyance. "I feel like crap," she sighs, curling deeper into her pillows.

"I know, honey. But it'll get better soon," I reassure her, though part of me isn't convinced. "How many times have you thrown up today?"

"Ugh, I don't even know," she groans. "I lost count after four."

I sit on the edge of her bed, instinctively placing a hand on her forehead to check for fever. "No fever," I say, relieved. "But we should probably call the doctor if this keeps up. It's been too long."

She groans again, this time in frustration. "Great, just what I need: another appointment."

"I just want to make sure everything's okay. You've been feeling like this for weeks now. It's not normal, Paris." I try to keep my voice gentle, knowing how sensitive she is right now.

"Whatever. It's probably just the flu," she replies dismissively, though there's a hint of worry in her tone that I can't ignore.

I nod, but deep down, I wonder if it's something more. As I sit there, I can't help but think about the possibility that she might be pregnant.

"Mom, can I just be sick in peace?" she asks, a playful smirk breaking through her discomfort.

"Of course," I say, forcing a smile. "But if you change your mind about the doctor, let me know, alright? I'm here for you."

"Thanks," she replies softly, her eyes finally starting to close. I sit quietly, watching her drift off, my mind racing with what might be ahead.

As a few more days pass, I slowly continue to recover, but Paris remains largely unwell. She's used up all her sick days and paid time off from work, and the worry gnaws at me. Her vibrant spirit has been replaced by a listless demeanor, and I can see how exhausted she is. Finally, I decide to take matters into my own hands and call the doctor.

I walk into her room and immediately notice the telltale signs that she just finished another vomiting session. The remnants of her lunch are scattered on the floor beside her bed, and the air is heavy with a mix of stale food and something more unsettling. She lies there, pale and fragile, her hair disheveled, and I can't help but feel a wave of sympathy wash over me. "I made a doctor's appointment. I'm taking you to see the general practitioner in a few minutes. Get ready to go," I announce firmly.

"Mom—" she starts to protest.

"It's been weeks of this, Paris. You can't keep anything down. I'm genuinely worried about you," I sigh, crossing my arms as I lean against the doorframe.