FORBIDDEN TIES

1.

Keeya Modise

I haven’t slept a wink. My eyes burn from exhaustion, but my mind won’t quiet down. All I can think about is the baby girl I admitted yesterday—Uluthando Khuzwayo. She’s been occupying my thoughts since the moment I laid eyes on her. Her small, fragile frame shivered with cold hands, her skin ghostly pale. She seemed so delicate, as if one wrong move could break her. I’ve seen sick children before, but there’s something about her that grips my heart in a way I can’t explain.

Maybe it’s the vulnerability in her eyes. Maybe it’s the way she clutched my finger when I tried to reassure her. Or maybe it’s the haunting silence that hung over her like a shadow, as though her very existence was a question waiting for an answer. I’ve met many patients in my career, but Uluthando is different. There’s an unspoken story behind her sickness, and it’s gnawing at me.

I’ve been pacing my office for hours, her file spread across my desk, the medical charts taunting me with their blank spaces where answers should be. I’ve been through every test result, every scan, every symptom. But nothing makes sense. How could someone so young, so fragile, fall into this condition with no clear diagnosis?

The sun has long set, casting my office into shadows, but I haven’t turned on the lights. I prefer the darkness right now—it matches the heavy feeling in my chest. I can’t shake the thought that there’s something more going on with Uluthando, something no test could show. Her cold hands, her pale skin... it feels wrong, but not just in a medical sense. I can’t help but feel a deeper connection to her, like I’m meant to be the one to solve this.

A nurse knocks lightly on my door, interrupting my thoughts. "Dr. Modise, are you alright? It’s getting late." Her voice is soft, concerned, but I can’t muster the energy to respond with more than a nod. She hesitates for a moment before closing the door again, leaving me alone with the quiet hum of the hospital around me.

I glance at the clock. It’s nearly midnight. Most of the staff have already left or switched shifts, but here I am, still trying to solve a mystery that refuses to be solved. I know I should go home, get some rest, but how can I sleep when all I can think about is that little girl lying in her hospital bed, her future hanging in the balance?

I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. I’ve always been good at compartmentalizing, at separating my emotions from my work. It’s something they drill into you in medical school—don’t get too attached. You can’t save everyone. But this time, it feels different. I can’t detach from Uluthando. It’s as if her life is woven into mine in ways I can’t yet understand.

I reach for her file again, flipping through the pages as if reading them one more time will somehow unlock the answers I’m looking for. Her initial bloodwork showed nothing unusual. Her vitals were weak but not alarming. We’ve run every test imaginable, yet nothing stands out. Every avenue leads to a dead end, and I’m left with nothing but my gut feeling that something’s being missed.

I pull out a piece of paper and start writing down everything I know about Uluthando, hoping that seeing it all in one place will help make sense of it.

Name: Uluthando Khuzwayo

Age: 4 years

Symptoms: Cold extremities, pallor, lethargy

Initial diagnosis: Unclear

Family history: Unknown

That last part bothers me the most. I tried asking her about her family when I admitted her, but she was too weak to respond. The woman who brought her in claimed to be her aunt, but something about her story felt off. She avoided eye contact when I asked for more details and seemed eager to leave as soon as Uluthando was admitted. I’ve dealt with plenty of anxious family members, but this was different. It felt... calculated, as if she wanted to get out of here before anyone asked too many questions.

I make a mental note to follow up with the aunt tomorrow. Something about her doesn’t sit right with me. And if there’s anything I’ve learned in my years of practice, it’s to trust my instincts.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk and rubbing my temples. The weight of the day is pressing down on me, but I can’t give in to it. Not yet. I take a deep breath and stare at the clock again—12:15 AM. Time is slipping through my fingers, just like the answers I’m desperately searching for.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to me. What if I’ve been looking at this all wrong? What if Uluthando’s condition isn’t the result of a single illness or condition, but a combination of factors? Her symptoms—cold hands, pale skin, lethargy—could be indicative of a more complex underlying issue. Something that’s been overlooked because it doesn’t fit neatly into one category.

I grab my tablet and start searching through medical journals, scanning for any cases that might resemble Uluthando’s. It’s a long shot, but it’s all I have right now. Minutes turn into hours as I comb through article after article, my mind racing with possibilities.

Eventually, I find a case that catches my attention. It’s a rare condition—one that affects the blood and circulation in young children. The symptoms match, but the condition is so uncommon that it’s often misdiagnosed. Could this be what’s wrong with Uluthando? It’s too early to tell, but it’s the first lead I’ve had all night.

I glance at the clock again—2:30 AM. My body is screaming for rest, but my mind is wide awake. I quickly jot down notes, making plans to run additional tests on Uluthando in the morning. If this is the answer, I’ll need to act fast.

As I pack up her file and prepare to leave, I feel a sense of cautious hope stirring inside me. It’s fragile, like Uluthando herself, but it’s enough to keep me going. I have to help her. I will help her.

For now, though, I need to close my eyes, even if only for a few hours. I flick off the desk lamp and step out of my office, the quiet corridors of the hospital echoing my footsteps. As I walk past the pediatric ward, I glance through the glass window into Uluthando’s room. She’s sleeping peacefully, her small chest rising and falling with each shallow breath.

I pause for a moment, watching her. There’s still so much I don’t know, so much that feels like a tangled web of secrets waiting to unravel. But I’m determined to untangle it, no matter what it takes. This little girl has become more than just a patient to me. In some inexplicable way, she feels like a part of my life, a thread that’s pulling me toward something bigger, something I’m not ready to face.

But I will face it. For Uluthando, and for whatever truth lies beneath the surface.