The Argument
That night, I didn’t ask.
“We’re taking her to the hospital tomorrow,” I said firmly.
Her father looked up, annoyed. “This again?”
“Yes. This again.”
“You’re overreacting,” he snapped. “It’s a stomach bug or stress. You don’t rush to the hospital for that.”
“And you don’t ignore your child when something is clearly wrong,” I shot back.
Leila sat quietly between us, her eyes moving from one to the other, as if she were somehow responsible for the tension.
“I’m okay,” she whispered.
But she wasn’t.
I could feel it.
And for once, I refused to be talked out of it.
The Drive
The next morning, I didn’t wait for agreement.
I told Leila to get dressed. I grabbed my keys. And we left.
The drive to the hospital felt longer than it actually was. Every red light felt like an obstacle. Every second felt like time we didn’t have.
Leila leaned her head against the window.
“Mom… you don’t have to do this,” she murmured weakly.
“Yes, I do,” I said, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “I absolutely do.”



