By five that evening, even sitting upright felt like a battle against gravity.
I’d spent most of the day buried beneath two blankets, sweating through my T-shirt while shivering at the same time. My throat hurt whenever I swallowed, so I drank lukewarm water and tried not to move more than necessary.
I had a fever of 102 degrees.
And I was exhausted.
Nathan had wanted to stay home that morning.
“Yoli, I’m serious. I can call in.”
“You have that quarterly meeting.”
“I also have a wife with a fever.”
“I have medicine, water, and a TV remote. Go.”
Nathan leaned down and kissed my forehead.
“Stay in bed.”
“I plan to,” I said weakly.
“And order dinner.”
“I can make something easy.”
“No.”
He pointed toward me with the seriousness of someone issuing an order.
“Don’t even look at the stove.”
I managed a faint laugh.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m serious, Yoli.”
“So am I. Go.”
Before he left, Nathan filled my water bottle, put my medicine within easy reach on the nightstand, and texted the kids to come straight home after school.
He was worried about me.
I knew that.
At 4:30, the kids came through the front door hungry enough to behave as though their teachers had personally starved them for scientific research.
I ordered pasta for them, steak and potatoes for Nathan, and chicken soup for myself.
Then I texted my husband.
Your dinner costs more than my medicine.
His reply came almost immediately.
Worth it. Stay upstairs, Yoli. ❤️
I smiled at my phone.
Ten minutes later, I heard the front door open.
Then came a familiar voice from downstairs.
“Hello?”
Angela.
Nathan’s mother.
She never knocked when she knew we were home.
I hadn’t known she was coming over, and I had no idea why she’d shown up without calling.
A few moments later, she appeared in my bedroom doorway with her purse hanging from one arm.
She looked at me.
Then she looked at the clock on my nightstand.
“It’s five o’clock, Yolanda.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re STILL in bed?”
I stared at her.
“I have a fever, Angela.”
She walked over and lightly touched two fingers to my forehead.
For half a second, I almost appreciated the gesture.
Then she pulled her hand away.
“You always DID get dramatic when you’re sick.”
That was Angela’s particular talent.
She could turn an insult into something that sounded almost casual.
During my marriage to Nathan, she’d questioned whether I really needed a cleaning service after our second child was born.
She’d once picked up one of Nathan’s shirts and said, “You know, ironing takes five minutes if you care how your husband looks.”
Another time, she’d tasted my lasagna, smiled politely, and said, “Well, at least the children seem to like it.”
Nathan usually rolled his eyes afterward.
“That’s just Mom.”
And because I didn’t want every family gathering to turn into an argument, I usually let her comments slide.
Looking back, that had probably been a mistake.
The doorbell rang downstairs.
“That’s dinner,” I said. “Could you please bring it in?”
Angela frowned.
“Dinner?”
“I ordered food.”
“You ORDERED it?”
“Yes.”
She stared at me as though I’d just confessed to something scandalous.
“Ten minutes passed.”
Then fifteen.
The kids weren’t fighting over pasta.
Nobody had brought me my soup.
Finally, I forced myself out of bed.
My legs felt completely drained by the time I made it downstairs.
I followed the light coming from the kitchen.
And stopped.
Angela was standing beside the trash can.
I looked inside.
My stomach dropped.
The restaurant containers were sitting in the garbage.
The pasta.
Nathan’s steak.
The side dishes.
Even my unopened chicken soup.
“Angela?”
She turned around calmly.
“What are you even doing?” I asked, barely able to get the words out.
She wiped her hands with a paper towel.
“Saving my son from eating that garbage.”
For a moment, I honestly thought the fever had made me misunderstand her.
“You threw it away?”
“Of course!”
“Why?”
Angela glanced toward the stove.
“Because someone around here needs to remember what a kitchen is for.”
I stared at her.
“That was $90 of food.”
“And whose money paid for it?”
“Our money,” I said.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Meaning my son’s money.”
I couldn’t believe she had actually said it.
I lowered my voice because the children were in the living room.
“Angela, I am sick.”
“So?”
“So Nathan told me to order dinner.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Of course he did. He babies you.”
“Excuse me?”
“When Nathan was little, he could be sick for days and I still put food on the table every night.”
“Congratulations.”
The word slipped out before I could stop myself.
Angela’s eyebrows shot upward.
Then she folded her arms.
“A good wife cooks dinner herself!”
I looked at the trash.
My soup hadn’t even been opened.
“You threw away my food too.”
“You need soup? There’s a saucepan.”
I could barely believe what I was hearing.
A woman was standing beside a trash can full of perfectly good food, looking at someone with a 102-degree fever and telling her to start cooking.
