Chapter 2 - Almost Noon
By eleven, my fever still hadn't broken. Adam had called twice to make sure I was staying put. Eventually I drifted off.
I woke at 11:30 to the bedroom door flying open hard enough to bang against the wall.
Diane stood in the doorway, holding our spare emergency key between two fingers like she'd won a prize.
"Almost NOON," she announced, "and here you are, tucked in like royalty."
I tried to push myself up. My arms were trembling.
"Diane, I'm sick. I have a fever of a hundred and two."
She walked farther into the room. "We all get sick, Megan. My generation got out of bed anyway. We made breakfast, we made dinner, and we didn't post about it looking for a medal."
Her eyes swept over the tissues, the medicine, the water glass by the bed.
"My son is out there breaking his back, and his wife is melting into the mattress. Get up. Take a shower. Put a real meal in front of him for once in your life."
"I can't even stand up."
Then she pulled out her phone.
When she raised the camera, my stomach dropped.
"Diane, please don't."
"Say cheese."
"Diane. I'm begging you."
She lowered the phone with a small, satisfied smile. "Maybe a little embarrassment will finally light a fire under you. Adam deserves better than this."
Then she turned and walked out. A few seconds later, the front door slammed.
Ten minutes after that, my phone buzzed.
My hands shook as I picked it up.
There I was. Hair tangled, eyes swollen, mouth slightly open in my sleep. Underneath, in her bright, public voice, Diane had written:
"Good morning to everyone who actually gets up, goes to work, and takes care of their family instead of sleeping until noon like my DIL."
The comments were already rolling in. The women from her Bible study at Grace Hill Church. Her book club. Neighbors we hadn't seen in years.
"Poor Adam."
"Kids these days."
"In my time, we'd never."
I turned the phone face-down on the blanket.
For eight years I'd told myself Diane's judgment didn't matter. Now she'd handed it to two hundred people with a laughing emoji.
I cried until my chest hurt worse than the fever did.
When Adam got home that evening, I handed him my phone without a word.
He read the post. Then he scrolled through every single comment.
I braced for him to grab his keys and drive straight to her house. Instead, he set the phone down gently, sat on the edge of the bed, and took my hand.
"Don't answer her, Megan. Not one word. Just trust me."
"Adam, she—"
"I know what she did. I know exactly what she did."
He kissed my knuckles. There was something different in his face. Quiet. Controlled. Almost unsettling.
May you like
I assumed he just wanted me to let it go.
I could not have been more wrong.
