Page 18 of Hampton Holiday Collective

“He’s burning up,” I whisper, wide-eyed, whipping my focus from him to Daphne, then looking down at a limp Wesley again. His eyes are closed, but his face is twisted in a grimace. There’s a slight wheeze to his inhalations, and he’s sickly pale.

Shame and worry slam into me as I fully process the state of my son. He’s so very clearly sick—how the fuck did I not realize it earlier?

Daphne clocked his temp at 102.8 when he woke up, then 103.4 before they left the house. She held off giving him any sort of fever reducer so as not to mask the symptoms before they got here. He threw up an hour ago but hasn’t complained of stomach pains or been sick since.

My brain is working overtime, flipping through signs and symptoms and likely diagnoses—he had a cold a few weeks ago, but it cleared up on its own, and he’s not prone to ear infections. I lift his shirt and prod lightly at his stomach, but he doesn’t react like the pressure adds any additional pain.

What the fuck did I miss?

“Hey.” My wife squeezes my bicep, pulling me out of my near panic. “We’re here now. He’s going to be okay.”

I swallow past the lump of failure lodged in my throat, then suck in a deep breath to steady myself.

“Let’s get him checked in,” I concede. “He’ll have to be seen by Dr. Park, but we’re slow tonight, so I can be in the room, too.”

I roll my shoulders back and crack my neck from side to side. These chairs are the fucking worst. Especially for someone who’s six-two, stressed as hell, and trying to cradle a forty-five pound child in his arms.

Our kids have all had bouts of illness. Winnie was in the NICU for a few weeks when she was born. Wyatt has already broken two bones and has been in for stitches on three occasions during his short life. Of our three children, Wesley is the last I would have expected to require a middle-of-the-night visit to urgent care.

He’s so cautious. Docile. Sweet. My loving little saint of a son. I practically ignored him all day, blowing off his symptoms and half-heartedly placating him when he tried to tell me he was sick.

For fuck’s sake.

“Come here, buddy,” I choke out, fighting back tears as I cradle him to my chest. He’s sick. He’s so clearly sick. What kind of father am I to have missed all the signs?

Daphne soothes a hand over my back as we wait for Dr. Park. I would have preferred to see the images and to talk to the radiologist myself, but with the way Wesley whimpered and clung to me when I tried to hand him over to his mom, there was no way I was letting him go to examine his results.

Doesn’t matter. I already know what the X-rays will show. As soon as I put my stethoscope to his back, I heard it. I heard it and I fucking knew. I failed.

Dr. Park knocks once before entering the room.

“Just as we suspected.” She pulls up the images of Wesley’s chest, using the cursor on her laptop screen to indicate a patch of cloudiness in one lung. “Pneumonia.”

I curse silently, berating myself for missing something so critical. I’m a pediatric physician at a children’s urgent care center. I diagnose a dozen cases of pneumonia each fucking week.

If only I had slowed down rather than getting all wrapped up in decorating nonsense all day. Or if I’d taken his complaints seriously and checked him out when he told me he didn’t feel good over and over again…

I tune out everything else my colleague says. I miss most of the follow-up questions from Daphne. I already know what he needs: antibiotics and plenty of fluids and rest. What I don’t know is how the fuck this happened on my watch.

Chapter 15

Daphne

“He’sokay,” I assure my husband for what feels like the hundredth time.

Wesley gave no indication he was even sick until yesterday afternoon, and he’s already got the first dose of antibiotics in his system. He’s sleeping between us now, in our bed, while Maddie and Dempsey keep the other kids occupied.

“He’s not okay,” Fielding counters, his frustrated gaze set on our son’s chest as it rises and falls in a steady rhythm.

“You heard what Dr. Park said. Pneumonia can come on suddenly in little kids, even after it seems like they’re getting better.”

“I do remember a thing or two I learned in medical school,” he bites out sarcastically.

I let out a quiet sigh. There’s no use arguing with him right now. I know my husband well enough to know he’s convinced himself this is his fault.

He has always worried about being enough. A good enough partner. A good enough husband. A good enough doctor. And above all else, in his heart of hearts, he worries about being a good enough dad for our kids.

Never mind that he was made for the role. That our children adore him. That we’ve created a healthy, happy home for our family, and that he showers them with infinite amounts of love, support, and guidance every day.