My name’s Martha, and I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired in my whole life.
Back in college, I used to laugh with my friends and say I could survive on iced coffee and bad decisions. But now? It’s lukewarm baby formula and whatever snacks I can find in a vending machine at three in the morning.
That’s what my life is these days — running on pure instinct, caffeine, and fear. And it’s all for a tiny little girl who I’ve only known for three weeks, but already love more than I’ve ever loved anything.
Her name is Olivia. She’s three weeks old. And tonight, something was very wrong.
I was sitting in the ER waiting room with her pressed against my chest. My pajama pants were still the same stained ones I had given birth in, but I didn’t care how I looked. My only focus was my baby.
Olivia was screaming, her little fists clenched, her legs kicking, her voice so hoarse from hours of crying. And then I felt her forehead — it was burning up. A fever. My heart sank. That wasn’t normal for a newborn.
“Shh, baby, Mommy’s here,” I whispered, rocking her even though my own voice was cracked and weak.
But she didn’t stop.
My body ached from my C-section, the stitches healing too slowly. The pain was constant, but I pushed it down. I couldn’t afford to focus on me. There wasn’t time.
Three weeks ago, I became a mother. And I became one alone.
Keiran, her father, disappeared the second I told him I was pregnant. He saw the test, grabbed his jacket, and muttered, “You’ll figure it out.” That was the last time I ever saw him.
My parents? Gone too. They’d died in a car crash six years earlier.
So here I was, twenty-nine years old, jobless, exhausted, bleeding into maternity pads, and holding on by a thread. The only thing keeping me going was Olivia, and the desperate prayer that God — if He was still listening — would make her okay.
The waiting room was quiet except for Olivia’s cries echoing through it. People shifted in their seats, staring at the floor or fiddling with their phones. I tried to keep my head down, just focusing on rocking her.
And then it happened.
A loud, annoyed voice cut through the silence.
“Unbelievable,” the man said.
I looked up. Sitting across from me was a man in his early forties, polished like he had just walked out of a boardroom. His slicked-back hair didn’t have a strand out of place. A gold Rolex gleamed on his wrist. His suit was sharp, his shoes shined so much they reflected the light. And his expression? Pure disgust, like the ER was beneath him.
He tapped his expensive loafers against the floor and snapped his fingers toward the front desk.
“Excuse me?” he called. “Can we speed this up already? Some of us actually have lives to get back to.”
The nurse behind the counter, Tracy, didn’t flinch. She’d probably seen this type before. Calmly, she said, “Sir, we’re treating the most urgent cases first. Please wait your turn.”
But he wasn’t done. He laughed — loud and fake — and then pointed straight at me.
“You’re kidding, right? Her? She looks like she crawled in off the street. And that kid — Jesus. Are we really prioritizing a single mom with a screaming brat over people who pay for this system to function?”
The room shifted. People avoided eye contact. A teenager clenched his jaw. But no one said anything.
I held Olivia tighter, kissing her damp forehead. My hands shook, not because I was scared — I’d dealt with men like this before — but because I was too exhausted to fight.
But he kept going.
“This is exactly why this country’s falling apart,” he muttered. “People like me pay the taxes, and people like her waste the resources. This whole place is a joke. I could’ve gone private, but my clinic was full. Now I’m stuck here with charity cases.”
Tracy’s lips tightened, but she stayed professional.
The man leaned back, smirking as Olivia cried even louder. “I mean, come on. Look at her. She’s probably here every week just to get attention.”
That was the breaking point. Something in me snapped.
I lifted my head and looked him straight in the eye. My voice was low but steady.
“I didn’t ask to be here. I’m here because my daughter is sick. She hasn’t stopped crying for hours, and I don’t know what’s wrong. But sure — go ahead. Tell me more about how hard your life is in your thousand-dollar suit.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, spare me the sob story.”
The teen beside me shifted forward, like he wanted to speak up, but before he could — the double doors to the ER burst open.
A doctor rushed in, scanning the room.
The Rolex man sat up straighter, smoothing his jacket. “Finally,” he said smugly. “Someone competent.”
But the doctor didn’t even glance at him. He walked straight toward me.
“Baby with fever?” he asked quickly, already putting on gloves.
I jumped to my feet, clutching Olivia. “Yes. She’s three weeks old,” I said, my voice trembling.
“Follow me,” he said firmly.
I scrambled for my diaper bag and hurried after him, Olivia whimpering weakly in my arms.
Behind me, the Rolex man exploded. “Excuse me! I’ve been waiting over an hour with a serious condition!”
The doctor stopped and turned, arms folded. “And you are?”
“Jacob Jackson,” the man said, puffing out his chest. “Chest pain. Radiating. Could be a heart attack!”
The doctor studied him coolly. “You’re not pale. You’re not sweating. No shortness of breath. You walked in fine, and you’ve spent the last twenty minutes yelling at my staff. I’ll bet ten bucks you sprained a muscle swinging too hard on the golf course.”
The waiting room froze. Then — a snort. A laugh. Even Tracy smirked down at her computer.
Jacob’s jaw dropped. “This is outrageous!”
The doctor’s tone sharpened. “This infant has a fever of 101.7. At three weeks old, that’s a medical emergency. Sepsis can develop in hours. If we don’t act now, it can be fatal. So yes, she goes first.”
“But—” Jacob tried again.
The doctor pointed a finger straight at him. “If you ever speak to my staff like that again, I’ll personally escort you out of this hospital. Your money doesn’t impress me. Your watch doesn’t impress me. And your entitlement definitely doesn’t impress me.”
Silence.
Then, slowly, clapping began. One person, then another. Soon, the entire waiting room was applauding.
Tracy gave me a wink. “Go.”
The exam room was quiet and cool. Olivia’s cries had softened, but she was still feverish.
The doctor — his name tag read Dr. Robert — examined her gently.
“How long has she had the fever?” he asked.
“Since this afternoon,” I said. “She wouldn’t eat much, and then she just… wouldn’t stop crying.”
He nodded, checking her skin, her breathing, her tiny chest. I watched every move, holding my breath.
Finally, he smiled. “Good news. It looks like a mild viral infection. No signs of meningitis or sepsis. Lungs are clear. Oxygen levels are fine.”
I nearly collapsed with relief.
“You caught it early,” he said. “We’ll bring the fever down and keep her hydrated. She’ll need rest, but she’s going to be okay.”
Tears filled my eyes. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“You did the right thing bringing her in,” he reassured me. “Don’t let people like that guy outside make you doubt yourself.”
Later, Tracy came in carrying two small bags.
“These are for you,” she said gently.
Inside were diapers, formula samples, bottles, wipes, and a tiny pink blanket. There was even a note: You’ve got this, Mama.
I blinked fast, swallowing hard. “I didn’t think anyone cared.”
Tracy’s voice softened. “You’re not alone. It might feel like it, but you’re not.”
Hours later, Olivia’s fever broke. She was calmer, finally sleeping. I wrapped her in the donated blanket and got ready to leave.
The waiting room was quieter when I passed through. Jacob was still there, red-faced, his coat sleeve tugged down over his Rolex. Nobody spoke to him. People looked away.
I didn’t. I looked him straight in the eye.
And I smiled.
Not smug, not mocking. Just quiet. Peaceful. A smile that said, You didn’t win.
Then I walked out into the night, my daughter safe in my arms, feeling stronger than I had in weeks.