Emma stood frozen in the doorway of the sitting room, taking a step back from the makeshift infirmary. Theyd only arrived at her mother-in-laws five minutes ago, and already she wanted to flee.
On the sofa sat Margaret, smiling as if nothing were amiss. Beside her on the floor, four-year-old Sophiedressed in unicorn pyjamasfidgeted. The niece, her husbands sisters child, was speckled head to toe like a leopard, only the spots were angry red.
“Chickenpox?! Are you mad? Im pregnant!” Emma hissed.
“Dont fret! Shes had no fever for three days. The doctor says shes no longer contagious,” Margaret replied airily.
“Dont fret?! Do you even realise Ive never had it? That its dangerous for the baby? Why didnt anyone warn me?” Emma spun toward the exit.
“Emma, love, youre already here,” Margaret said, as if that settled it. “Stay a while.”
“If Id known, wed never have come!” Emma snapped, yanking on her boots.
She threw on her coat outside, unwilling to spend another second indoors. At eight months pregnant, she didnt need surprises like this. Her husband hurried after her.
The entire drive home, Emma berated herself. She knew how her in-laws treated health matters. Knewand still went.
The first red flag had been when her sister-in-law, Claire, brought a feverish Sophie for a visit. Emma had brushed it off thenshe wasnt pregnant, at least. Still, it left a bad taste.
Worse was catching the bug herself two days later. Working from home, shed had no other exposure. The fever made her miss deadlines, and her boss reprimanded her. With orders piling up, her illness couldnt have come at a worse time. She worked through it, miserable.
“Sorry about that,” Claire had shrugged when confronted. “Didnt realise your immune system was so weak.”
As if it were Emmas fault. The sheer audacity stung.
Claire treated everyone with the same carelessness. Shed drop Sophie at nursery, coughing and spluttering.
“Theyre kidsif mines ill, they all are already,” shed scoff when the teacher scolded her. “Ive got work. Cant afford sick days.”
No lesson learned. Why would she care? She wasnt the one suffering.
Thankfully, Emma avoided the chickenpox, and little Oliver was born healthy. But shed learned: she had to shield him from such recklessness. So she “accidentally” mixed up hospital dates and only allowed her own mother to visit.
“Emma, hows Oliver? When can we meet our grandson?” Margaret would ask anxiously.
“Not sure. The doctor advised keeping him isolated. His immunitys fragile,” Emma would deflect. “Were not even taking him outside yet, let alone having visitors.”
She concocted excusesfeigned forgetfulness, sudden ailments, anything to keep sniffly Sophie away.
Then Claire showed up unannounced. Emma opened the door on autopilot, and the damage was done. A grinning but sniffling Sophie bolted to the nursery.
“We thought wed pop round for tea,” Claire beamed. “Sophie begged to see her cousin. Kids love little ones, dont they?”
Emmas jaw tightened. Every instinct screamed to shove them both out, but she bit her tongue.
“Sophies ill again?” Emma crossed her arms.
“Kids are always ill,” Claire hedged. “Just allergies. They need to get sickbuilds immunity.”
“Right,” Emma drawled.
She turfed them out after half an hour, claiming they were off to meet Dad from work. But Oliver spiked a fever two days laterforty degrees, even seizures. That night was hell. Emma blamed herself. She shouldve slammed the door.
Enough was enough.
“No more. Thats it. No more snotty Sophies in this house,” she told her husband.
“Emma, its not her fault”
“I know. But the sight of her gives me a twitch. Shes a walking infection. Every visit ends with a doctor. Done.”
He stayed quiet. She saw his disapproval but didnt care. She was tired of fearing for their son.
Cutting off the in-laws completely proved impossible. Skipping Christmas? Fine. Dodging Mothers Day? Easy. But banning them from Olivers birthday was another matter.
“Mum and Claire are coming tomorrow,” her husband said gingerly. “Around five.”
Emma froze, sponge in hand. She glared.
“I told you! No invitations!”
“Emma, theyre family. I asked if Sophie was illClaire swore shes fine. Theyve a right to see him. Your mums coming! Are mine lesser? Plague-ridden?”
She pursed her lips but relented. Maybe things had changed.
They hadnt.
This time, Sophie wasnt coughingjust listless, sitting apart, unusually quiet.
“Is Sophie okay?” Emma murmured to Claire.
“Bit of a sore throat this morning. Gave her medicineshes fine now.”
Emma inhaled sharply, fighting the urge to scream.
“Youve worn us out with your sick child. Every visit ends in disaster.”
“Oh, relax,” Claire waved. “Hell catch bugs at nursery anyway. Consider it practice.”
Emma stared, dumbfounded.
“So I should thank you?”
“Dont overreact. All kids get ill.”
“Not by choice. They dont have to swap germs like trading cards.”
The party soured. Three days later, Oliver was feverish again.
Surely that was the end? Even her husband saw sense. But no.
On December 30th, he stormed in, slammed his keys down, and locked himself in the lounge.
“Everything alright?” Emma called.
“Stay out. Keep Oliver away. I was at Claires. She asked me to help assemble Sophies Christmas bike.”
She knew where this was going.
“And?”
“Her nurserys got rotavirus. She told me after.”
New Years Eve was spent over buckets, not buffets. No countdown, no TVjust silence. The turkey went uneaten.
“I cant do this,” Emma said, exhausted. “Im tired of fearing for Oliverfor you. Phone calls only from now on, agreed?”
“Agreed,” he sighed, finally sincere.
Some lessons are hard-learned: family shouldnt endanger your child for convenience. Even if “all kids get ill,” not all parents enable it.
