Morning light spilled through the gauzy curtains, soft and golden, but the warmth it offered did little to ease the chill in Sophie's chest.
Asta had finally drifted into a deep sleep in the early hours, his fever cooled but not gone. She had barely closed her eyes. Every hour of the night had passed beneath the weight of vigilance-her body curled around his, her thoughts unable to rest.
Now ,in the kitchen, she moved with quiet efficiency, preparing breakfast the same way she did everyday-boiled eggs, toast, a flask of tea. Her husband sat at the small dining table, flipping through his phone with one hand while sipping from a chipped mug.
He glanced at Asta, who sat beside him in his little chair, staring at his plate without much interest. His shoulders were slumped, eyes shadowed and distant.
"Why is he so dull today?" her husband asked, his voice casual but laced with concern. "He's not himself."
Sophie didn't look up. She placed a bowl on the table, poured juice into a plastic cup with cartoon prints. "He had a fever last night."
There was a pause. He looked at her then.
"You didn't wake me."
"There was no need," she replied simply. "It was under control."
He exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair "Still, I'm his father. You should've told me."
Sophie wiped her hands on a towel, her movements measured. "I had it handled. You were asleep."
Another pause. The air between them stretched thin.
She finally looked at him-really looked. His face was lined with exhaustion, yes, but also distance. A distance that had been widening for month now. Annette's return only deepened the chasm neither of them dared to name.
He looked back at Asta, who poked at his toast without interest.
"I've never seen him like this," he murmured.
Sophie's voice was quiet. "He's tired. It was a long day yesterday. Too many emotions for a three-year-old."
He nodded slowly but didn't say more. Sophie turned back to the sink ,rinsing out a cup ,her back straight ,her jaw tight.
She wanted to tell him everything she was thinking-that Asta clung to her not just because she raised him ,but because he chose her. That loving a child like him meant anticipating storms before they broke. That she was afraid of how the past might return and rearrange the life they'd built.
But instead, she said nothing.
They ate in near silence, the only sound the clink of metal against porcelain and Asta's occasional cough.
Outside, the day brightened. Inside, things remained the same.
Too quiet.
Too full of words left unsaid.
Asta hadn't touched a thing.
He sat slumped in his little chair ,legs dangling ,his eyes dull and unfocused. The plate in front of him remained untouched- the toast going cold, the egg left whole. His small fingers toyed with the corner of the placemat but made no move toward food.
Sophie watched him quietly, every maternal instinct on high alert. She didn't push him. She had learned that sometimes ,presence was more powerful than pressure.
Kinuthia, however, frowned and set his phone aside."Asta, come on. Just a little bite, champ. "His voice was gentle but firm. "You didn't eat dinner properly either. Let's try now, okay?"
Asta didn't respond.
Kinuthia reached for the spoon Sophie had left near the bowl of porridge, scooping a careful bite. "Just a taste," he coaxed, holding it near the boy's mouth.
"I'm not hungry," Asta murmured, voice faint.
"You need to eat something," Kinuthia insisted, still calm but with a slight edge of worry sharpening his tone. "Just a little, so you'll feel better."
Asta turned his head away.
Kinuthia sighed, exchanged a glance with Sophie, then tried once more. "Please, for Baba..."
But as soon as the spoon neared his lips again, Asta flinched-and then, suddenly gagged.
Before Sophie could react, he vomited.
It was sudden and sharp-his tiny body convulsing as he emptied the contents of his stomach right onto his clothes and the table. Sophie shot up immediately, grabbing a towel with one hand and reaching for him with the other.
Kinuthia stood frozen for a second, stunned. Then he moved-swift, purposeful-grabbing another cloth, trying to help.
"Asta- shhh, baby, it's okay, you're okay," Sophie whispered, wiping his face, her own breath caught in her throat.
Asta began to cry, soft and miserable, clinging to her.
Sophie held him close, feeling the heat of his skin through her shirt. The fever had not subsided completely. His forehead was burning again. Her stomach knotted.
Kinuthia was already grabbing his car keys.
"This isn't normal," he said, his voice low, urgent now. "We're not waiting. He needs to see a doctor-today."
Sophie nodded, pressing her lips to Asta's temple. "I'll change him. You get the bag."
No hesitation.
No further words.
The fear had settled into both of them- silent, heavy, shared.
As Kinuthia moved briskly down the hallway, Sophie whispered again into her son's damp hair:
"You'll be okay. We've got you."
But even as she said it, her hands trembled.
The white walls of the pediatric emergency ward echoed with distant murmurs-shuffling nurses, the quiet beep of machines, the subtle rustle of papers that somehow felt louder in moments of worry.
Sophie sat motionless at Asta's bedside, her eyes never leaving his pale face. His small body looked even smaller under the hospital sheets, a band around his wrist, an Iv snaking into his arm like a lifeline made of plastic and hope.
Kinuthia stood by the window, arms folded, jaw tight. He had always been calm under pressure- but now, he looked like a man holding in a storm.
The doctor re-entered the room with a clipboard and a face composed, but not devoid of concern. He adjusted his glasses before speaking.
"Your son is severely anaemic," he said gently. "His red blood cells count is dangerously low. That's what's causing the fatigue, the fever, the vomiting. It's not an infection-it's exhaustion from within."
Sophie inhaled sharply. Kinuthia stepped forward. "What can we do?"
"He needs a transfusion," the doctor replied. "Soon. We've already cross-cheked the blood bank-unfortunately, we don't have a compatible match for his rare group on site."
Sophie's voice was horse. "We've already drawn your samples. Yours and Mr. Kinuthia's. Neither is a match."
Silence fell like a gavel.
Sophie glanced at Kinuthia. His face had gone rigid.
Sophie glanced at Kinuthia. His face had gone rigid.
The doctor cleared his throat gently, then continued, "Do you have access to any immediate biological relatives of the child-specifically the mother?"
Sophie closed her eyes for the briefest moment.
Annette.
Of course, It had to be her.
She felt a complex twist in her chest-something between dread and surrender.
"She's...not far," Sophie said, her voice steadier than she felt. "We'll call her."
The doctor gave a tight nod. "The sooner, the better. The boy is stable for now, but if the levels drop further-"
Sophie looked back at Asta. His breathing was light, shallow, as if his body were conserving every ounce of energy it had left.
She reached for his hand, held it gently.
And for the first time since Annette had returned, she silently wished the woman would come quickly.
Not for herself.
Not even for Kinuthia.
But for this boy.
Their boy.
Who needed the one person none of them could replace.
The hospital corridors smelled faintly of antiseptic and despair-clean, sterile, but heavy with unseen weight. Annette's boots echoed on the tiled floor as she approached the pediatric ward, each step pulled by dread and an unnamed ache she couldn't shake since the call came.
She hadn't even asked many questions. All she heard was Kinuthia's voice-tight, strained-and the words "it's Asta...He needs you."
That was enough.
She pushed the glass door open ,her heart drumming loud in her ears.
Sophie was the first to see her.
She stood up immediately from the plastic waiting chair, her arms folded tight against her chest, posture defensive by instinct. Her eyes locked with Annette's ,and for a moment, neither woman said a word.
Kinuthia rose behind her running a hand over his face. His expression was a mixture of relief and something unreadable.
Annette's gaze darted between them, then to the room behind the glass, where a nurse adjusted Asta's IV. Her breath caught. He looked so small, so pale, so...not her son. Not the wild, laughing boy she remembered. This child looked like he was being slowly erased.
"I came as fast as I could," Annette said quietly, her voice raw.
"No time for pleasantries," Kinuthia said, stepping forward. "They need to test you now. His blood group is rare. We're not a match."
Annette nodded, swallowing the sharp knot in her throat. "Take me."
Sophie spoke up, finally-her tone calm, but edged with something brittle. "You'll need to fill out a consent form and they'll draw quickly. The doctor's waiting."
Annette followed a nurse without another word, but as she passed Sophie, she felt the weight of her stare-a wall she had built long before this moment. And yet, there was something else in it now. Something unspoken. A reluctant hope.
The corridor narrowed as the nurse led her away.
In the waiting room, Kinuthia sat down again beside Sophie.
She didn't speak.
He didn't either.
Not yet.
Because in that moment, everything-resentments, fears, and unfinished conversations-had to make space for one fragile life suspended between them