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The doctor frowned upon hearing “hospital” and said, “How could you take a child to the hospital? It’s flu season with the changing weather. Kids already have weak immunity and catch infections easily at hospitals. Instead of protecting her, you brought her there? What kind of parents are you?”
The doctor grew angrier as he spoke, eventually scolding them outright.
This wasn’t Bianca’s workplace, and she hadn’t revealed her profession.
But hearing the doctor’s reproach, she felt wronged and chose to stay silent.
Seeing her quiet, the doctor assumed she felt guilty and snapped, “If you’d come any later today, the child could’ve died! Do you think you’re being a competent mother?”
Listening to the doctor’s reprimand, Bianca felt waves of bitterness in her heart.
When Winnie was well–behaved, it was the father’s achievement.
When Winnie got sick, it was the mother’s failure.
How ridiculous.
Blair stood nearby, listening to their conversation the whole time.
Seeing the doctor scold Bianca, Blair finally spoke up: “It’s my fault, not hers.”
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Noticing Blair defending Bianca, the doctor snapped: “Your child is in this state, and you’re still protecting her?”
Blair didn’t want to hear more. His expression turned cold: “Just tell us what we need to do.”
His displeasure was unmistakable, and the doctor caught it.
To avoid conflict, the doctor promptly closed his mouth. “IV drips, shots, and hospitalization,” he told Blair.
Blair merely responded with a detached “Hmm.”
Turning to leave, he paused when Bianca didn’t follow. Glancing back, he asked: “Aren’t you coming?”
Bianca’s mind raced. Having worked a full year, she’d witnessed life- and–death situations before.
But repeated exposure had numbed her.
Tonight was different–her daughter hovered at death’s door.
Panicked and confused, Bianca could barely think straight.
Seeing her fear, Blair bent to wrap an arm around her: “Come on. Winnie will be fine.”
She leaned into him, walking unsteadily toward the exit.
Her shattered demeanor twisted Blair’s heart.
Outside, a young nurse rushed toward them.
Bianca’s panic surged at the nurse’s hurried steps.
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“What’s wrong?
Is my daughter tvorse?” she called out before the nurse reached them.
Shaking her head, the nurse clarified: “No, the child woke up.”
Hearing Winnie was conscious, Bianca shoved Blair aside and sprinted to the ward.
There, Winnie lay with eyes open, still listless.
Bianca sat beside the bed, gently stroking her daughter’s cheek. Her voice softened with tenderness: “Sweetheart, feeling any better?”
Winnie stared back with red–rimmed eyes, jaw clenched in silence.
Bianca understood–the child wanted someone else.
She quietly yielded her seat to Blair.
As Blair sat down, Winnie whispered: “Dad.”
“Better now?” He gazed at her, heart aching.
Winnie nodded hoarsely: “A little.”
Blair smiled, caressing her face: “Good. I’ll stay with you.”
After a nod, Winnie fell quiet.
Blair studied her: “Why not call for Mom?”
Winnie remained silent, eyes fixed on him.
“Mom carried you here,” Blair murmured. “She was so worried. Not calling her hurts her feelings, understand?”
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At those words, Winnie’s eyes welled up instantly.
She knew she resisted liking Mom, yet craved her presence–longing to hug her now, to sleep curled against her.
But stubbornly, inexplicably, she remained too stubborn to call her.
But since Dad said so, she reluctantly called out: “Mom.”
Hearing this, Bianca quickly grasped Winnie’s hand, her eyes reddening as she responded in a choked voice: “Yes, Mommy’s right here.”
Winnie felt slightly better, but soon a nurse wheeled a cart into the hospital room.
The nurse announced: “Winnie needs an IV needle placed. Parents, please step out for a moment.”
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