The babysitter

The Plague

Tim pushed through the front door, already loosening his tie and expecting to find Lucy exactly where he'd left her that morning—exhausted on the couch with at least one sick child in her arms. Instead, he was greeted by the sound of laughter coming from the living room.

"Daddy!" Emma's voice rang out, bright and cheerful in a way it hadn't been in days.

Tim rounded the corner to find an unexpected scene: Evan was sitting up on the floor, babbling happily as he played with a set of colorful blocks, while Emma sat cross-legged beside him, making exaggerated faces that sent their son into fits of giggles. Kojo was sprawled nearby, his tail wagging lazily as he watched the children play.

"Hey, baby girl," Tim said, crouching down to accept Emma's enthusiastic hug. Her forehead felt cool against his cheek—no fever. "You're feeling better."

"Uh-huh! And Evan's not crying anymore either," Emma announced proudly. "We've been playing blocks and I taught him how to make them fall down really loud."

Tim looked at his son, who was indeed looking much more like himself—bright-eyed and alert, no longer the miserable, feverish baby from the night before. "That's great, sweetheart. Where's Mommy?"

Emma's expression shifted slightly, becoming more serious. "She's in the bathroom. She's been throwing up."

Tim's stomach dropped. "What do you mean she's been throwing up?"

"She got sick like we were sick," Emma explained matter-of-factly. "But she said it was okay because we're feeling better now, so someone has to take care of her."

Tim was already moving toward the hallway, his mind racing. Of course. Of course Lucy had caught whatever bug the kids had been fighting. She'd been caring for them non-stop, barely sleeping, running herself into the ground while her immune system was compromised from exhaustion.

He found the bathroom door slightly ajar and could hear the unmistakable sounds of retching from inside. Tim knocked gently.

"Lucy? It's me."

"Don't come in," Lucy's voice came back, weak and shaky. "I'm—" Her words were cut off by another wave of nausea.

Tim pushed the door open anyway to find Lucy kneeling on the bathroom floor, one hand gripping the edge of the toilet, the other pressed against the wall for support. Her face was pale and drawn, damp with sweat, and Tim could see the way she was favoring her injured ankle even in this position.

"Hey," he said softly, moving to kneel beside her. "I'm here."

"Tim, you shouldn't—you'll get sick too," Lucy protested weakly, but she didn't have the strength to push him away when he gently gathered her hair back from her face.

"Too late for that," Tim said, rubbing small circles on her back as another wave hit her. "Besides, someone's got to take care of you now."

When the worst of it seemed to pass, Lucy slumped back against the bathroom wall, breathing heavily. "The kids?"

"Are playing happily in the living room. Both of them seem to be feeling much better." Tim reached for a washcloth, running it under cool water before gently wiping her face. "How long have you been like this?"

"Started around noon," Lucy admitted, closing her eyes as Tim's gentle ministrations brought some relief. "I thought maybe it was just because I was tired and hadn't eaten much, but..."

"But our kids brought home the plague and shared it with you," Tim finished grimly. He helped her shift into a more comfortable position, noting how she winced when she tried to adjust her injured ankle. "How's the ankle?"

"Hurts worse when I'm nauseated," Lucy said with a weak laugh. "Everything hurts worse when you're throwing up."

Tim stood and quickly grabbed a pillow from their bedroom, returning to tuck it behind Lucy's back against the wall. "Better?"

Lucy nodded gratefully. "The kids have been so good. Emma's been helping with Evan, and they've both been playing quietly. I think they know I don't feel well."

"Kids are intuitive like that," Tim agreed, settling beside her on the bathroom floor. "You should be in bed."

"I can't get that far from the bathroom right now," Lucy said honestly. "Every time I try to move, another wave hits."

Tim looked at his wife—the woman who had spent the previous night caring for their sick children while he slept, who had pushed through her exhaustion and injury to keep their family functioning, and who was now trying to downplay her own illness even as she sat on their bathroom floor looking completely miserable.

"Okay," he said decisively. "New plan. I'm going to get you some crackers and ginger ale, set up a comfortable spot for you in here where you can rest between waves, and then I'm taking over everything else."

"Tim, you just got home from work—"

"And you've been working all day too, while feeling like garbage," Tim interrupted gently. "It's my turn, Lucy. Let me take care of you for once."

Lucy looked like she wanted to argue, but another wave of nausea hit, and by the time it passed, all she could do was nod weakly and lean into Tim's solid presence beside her.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too," Tim replied, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Now let me go check on the kids and get you settled. We're going to get through this, just like we always do."