I was holding our burning-hot two-year-old when I opened the garage and saw my SUV was gone. Trent rejected my call, then texted that he’d taken it to his friend’s for the weekend. When I told him Silas had a 103-degree fever and needed urgent care, he sent back a reply that changed what I did next.
Silas had one sock on when the pediatric nurse told me to bring him in. The other sock was under the couch, though I didn’t know that yet.
At that moment, I had a two-year-old burning against my shoulder, a half-zipped diaper bag, and a cup of apple juice he’d refused six times. His temperature was 103, but it wasn’t only the number that worried the nurse. Silas had become unusually sleepy, and he wouldn’t drink.
“Take him to the emergency room,” she said.
“On my way.”
I carried him toward the garage. My SUV was gone.
I actually looked behind me, as though it might be hiding in the laundry room. Empty garage. Trent’s car wasn’t there either, because it had been at Miller’s repair shop since Wednesday.
Then I remembered his weekend. He’d been looking forward to Friday through Sunday at his friend Dave’s house for a game and a fishing trip, and Dave was supposed to pick him up. I’d been happy for him. Really. We had a toddler, breaks were rare, and I believed we were pretty good about giving each other one when we could.
“Figure It Out”
I called him. Rejected. I called again. Rejected.
Then a text appeared.
“Took your SUV. Dave didn’t feel like driving out to get me, and we needed the trunk space for our extra gear anyway.”
I stared at it, then at Silas, then at the empty garage. I typed with one thumb.
“Trent, Silas has a 103 fever. The nurse says he needs to be seen. You are twenty minutes away. Bring the SUV back now.”
The typing bubbles appeared.
“I just sat down on the couch and the game is starting. I’m not driving back because you can’t handle a basic toddler cold. Give him Tylenol.”
I read it twice. Silas whimpered and pushed his face into my neck.
“He won’t drink and he’s barely staying awake. I am completely stranded. How am I supposed to get him to the emergency room if he gets worse?”
This time, Trent answered immediately.
“Stop trying to sabotage my weekend with your hysterical drama. You’re a mother. Figure it out. 🤷🏻♂️”
I stood there long enough for the garage light to switch itself off. Then I turned it back on.
The Car Seat in the Corner
Beside a box of Christmas decorations sat our spare toddler car seat. I’d bought it for my sister to use whenever she watched Silas, and Trent had once complained that we didn’t need two. That afternoon, it was the most useful thing in my house.
I didn’t text him again. I ordered a rideshare.
The driver pulled up eleven minutes later and watched me wrestle the seat into his back seat while Silas cried against my shoulder.
“You need a minute?”
“Probably six.”
He waited. I got the seat secured, buckled Silas in, and climbed in beside him. Only when we pulled away did I realize I was still wearing slippers.
At the emergency room, Silas threw up on my shirt. After that, the slippers bothered me considerably less.
The doctor examined him, got fluids into him, and told me his symptoms were consistent with a viral infection. We left with medication instructions, hydration targets, and a list of warning signs that meant we should come back. By then, Silas had finally taken a few sips of juice. I could have kissed that cup.
He fell asleep against me while I waited for another ride home.
The Email
For three hours, I hadn’t had time to be angry. I’d had temperatures to remember, questions to answer, medicine to collect, and a toddler who objected to anyone putting anything near his ears. Once he was asleep in my arms, I finally looked at my phone.
Nothing from Trent. No “How is he?” No “What did the doctor say?”
I opened our shared email because I needed the pharmacy receipt, and a different message caught my eye.
MILLER’S AUTO SERVICE: VEHICLE READY FOR PICKUP.
Sent at 3:18 that afternoon, with weekend pickup hours through Sunday.
Trent’s car was ready. And my first instinct was embarrassingly automatic. I started calculating: if my sister sat with Silas, I could collect Trent’s car before Miller’s closed, then he could bring my SUV home Sunday and I’d follow him back to the shop.
I was halfway through solving the entire thing when I stopped.
Why?
For illustrative purposes only
It wasn’t my car. It wasn’t my weekend. And I was holding the sick child Trent had just told me to figure out.
So I closed the email.
Once Silas and I were home, I sent Trent exactly one message: “Silas has been seen. He’s home. We have instructions for tonight. Your car is ready at Miller’s.”
His answer came five minutes later.
“Good. So we’re good? 😃”
I looked at Silas asleep on the couch, his hair stuck damply to his forehead. Then I typed:
“Silas is.”
I put my phone down.
The Quiet Saturday
Saturday was not dramatic. It was mostly crackers. Silas