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"Mama... Hurts... Mama, tummy hurts..."

You bolt upright, the heavy haze of exhaustion vanishing in a second. Slipping out of bed, you hurry to your daughter's room. When you open the door, she’s curled into a tight little ball under her blankets, clutching her knees to her chest, her face flushed and tear streaked.

"Oh, sweet girl, what’s wrong?" you murmur, lifting her into your arms. She feels slightly warm, but it’s her belly that’s rock hard and tense.

She lets out a sharp wail, burying her face in your neck.

You try to think. Did she eat something bad? A stomach bug? Your mind scrambles through the medicine cabinet, but you’re terrified of giving a toddler the wrong dosage or medicine.

Needing help, you grab your phone and dial the one person who always has the answers.

Over at the hospital, the emergency department is in its usual state of controlled chaos. Jack stands at the central desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

When his phone vibrates, he sighs. But seeing your name on the screen, he steps away from the desk into a quieter corner.

"Hey, baby," Jack says. "Everything okay?"

"Jack, I need help," you say, and the panic in your voice immediately puts him on high alert. In the background, he can hear the distinct crying of your daughter. "She woke up screaming. She’s clutching her stomach, a-and it's completely rigid. She’s... I think she's in so much pain and I don't know what to do. What medicine can I give her? P-Please tell me what to do."

"Okay, baby, hey, take a breath. Is she vomiting? Does she have a fever?"

"No fever, she’s just a little warm from crying. No vomiting yet, but she's crying so hard she might. She keeps saying her tummy hurts."

"Is the pain on the lower right side? Does she flinch if you press gently on it?" Jack asks. The fear of appendicitis is always there.

"No, it seems like it's her whole stomach. She's just curled up." Jack pauses, trying to piece every thing you say together. "Jack, did she eat anything unusual today? Anything out of the ordinary when you two were out?"

Silence hangs on the line for a second. And then, the memory of their afternoon grocery run hits him.

The grocery store.

The coke can.

He remembers her sitting in the cart, proudly holding her little juice box, while he grabbed a can of Coca-Cola. He remembers her finishing the juice in five minutes flat, and then pointing her finger at his red can.

“Want that. Daddy, please?”

“No, baby. That’s Daddy’s. It’ll make your tummy hurt.”

But she had been stubborn.

She pouted, she whined, she reached for it. And later, when they got home, Jack had set the open can on the low coffee table while he was distracted trying to put the groceries away.

He remembered the sudden silence in the living room.

When a toddler is quiet, they’re up to mischief.

By the time he had walked back into the room, she was sitting on the rug, the red can tipped back, a dark ring of soda around her mouth.

She had swallowed nearly half the can before he snatched it away. He had cleaned her up, checked her over, and when she seemed fine, he figured they’d dodged a bullet.

He hadn't wanted to worry you, so he kept it to himself.

God, he was an idiot.

"Jack? Are you there?" your voice breaks through his thoughts.

"Ye- yeah, I'm here," Jack whispers, a guilt washing over him. He leans his forehead against the hospital wall, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry. It’s my fault."

"What? What do you mean?"

"This afternoon... when we went to the store," Jack confesses. "I got a can of Coke. She wanted it, and I told her no, but... I got distracted. I left the can on the table. She drank almost half of it before I realized. I thought she’d be fine, but... her stomach can't handle that. It's a massive gas buildup and a caffeine crash."

There’s a beat of silence. "Jack... she's a toddler. Half a can?"

"I know. I know, I’m so sorry," Jack says, his voice cracking. He feels utterly incompetent. He couldn't protect his own daughter from a stupid can of soda. "I should have been paying attention."

"We can deal with that later," you say, pushing your frustration aside because your daughter is still sobbing against your shoulder. "Do I give her medicine?"

"No pain meds yet," Jack says. "Do you have any pediatric gas drops? Simethicone?"

"Yes, I think we have some."

"Okay, good, give her the recommended dose of that. After that, don't lay her flat. Keep her upright against your chest. Rub her back firmly to help her pass the gas. And try to get her to take small sips of water to flush her system, but only if she wants it."

"Okay," you breathe, writing it down mentally. "Simethicone, upright, rub her back."

"If she starts vomiting repeatedly, or if she develops a fever, you call me immediately and bring her here. I'll have a bed ready. But it should start to pass in an hour or two once you give her that." Jack's voice is calm, trying to sound clear, so you understand the indications and calm your nerves. "I am so sorry, honey. I’ll come home. I’ll get someone to cover the rest of my shift—"

"No, Jack, don't do that," you sigh. Your anger softens. "It's okay. I can handle this. Just... stay on the phone with me while I give her the drops?"

"Yeah," Jack chokes out. "Yeah. I'm not going anywhere. Put me on speaker so I can talk to her."

-

When the clock reads 4 AM, Jack finally finds some minutes to check on his family. Because every time he had to suture a laceration or look at a patient’s chart, his mind drifted back to his little girl sobbing because of his carelessness.

He hates himself for calling and potentially waking you if she finally fell asleep, but the agony of not knowing is eating him alive.

You answer on the second ring, your voice sounded exhausted. "Hey."

"Hey, beautiful," Jack breathes."Did I wake you? Is she... how is she?"

"You didn't wake me. I was just sitting on the floor next to her, watching her," you say softly. "She threw up about an hour ago, but she's okay now."

Jack’s stomach drops. He pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes tight. "God. I'm so sorry. I should have come home. Was it bad? Did she choke? Is she—"

"Jack, it's okay," you interrupt gently. "She’s okay. Honestly, I think throwing up was exactly what she needed to get the thing out of her system. Right after it happened, she let out a huge sigh, drank a few sips of water, and went straight to sleep. Her stomach isn't hard anymore."

Jack lets out a long breath but the relief doesn't completely wash away the bitter taste of self reproach.

"I feel like a terrible father," he confesses. "I was right there and I let her get hurt."

"Jack, baby," you say. "You are not a terrible father. This things happen. Maybe you didn't think she would do it. And it's okay."

"That's not an excuse—"

"It's not an excuse, it's reality," you cut in softly. "Toddlers are like tiny silent ninjas. You can look away for three seconds, and they’ve climbed onto the counter. It happens to everyone. Literally everyone."

Jack swallows hard. "She was crying so hard, honey."

"And she’s sleeping peacefully now," you reassure him. "These things happen, baby. Yesterday it was a Coke can. Next week she’s probably going to eat my lipgloss. We do our best, we mess up, we learn, and we keep going. You made a mistake, and then you stayed on the phone and walked me through exactly how to take care of her. You're incredible."

Jack listens to your calm voice, and the anxiety on his chest starts to melt.

"How did I get so lucky with you?" he whispers.

A soft chuckle comes through the receiver. "Because you're a good man, Jack Abbot... Even when you leave carbonated drinks within arm's reach."

He laughs weakly. "I'm throwing all the soda in the house in the trash the second I get home."

"You better..." you say, a playful lilt finally creeping into your tired voice. "We are completely fine here. I promise. Sleepy but fine."

Jack catches the slight shift in your tone.

He can picture the teasing smirk on your face.

He leans back against the wall, a smile appearing on his face.

"You're really annoyed with me, aren't you, baby?" he asks.

"Maybe... A little," you reply instantly, letting out a hum just to provoke him. "I mean, my sleep is completely ruined now but we're okay."

"I know, I know. I'm at your mercy," Jack chuckles, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "How can I make it up to you? Name your price, Dr. Abbot will deliver."

"You are absolutely stopping to grab breakfast on your way home," you dictate, though there's no real heat behind it. "The good stuff. The biggest caramel latte they can legally sell you. Consider it the 'bad dad' tax."

"Done, beautiful. Consider it ordered. I'll bring your favorite. And morning kisses too. Special breakfast for my woman." Jack says smiling like an idiot.

"Good, handsome," you murmur as you look over at your daughter, who is now snoring softly. The storm had passed, and everything was going to be fine. "Get back to work. And, Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you. We love you."

"I love you both, honey, so much," he whispers, his heart swelling with warmth. "See you in a few hours. Go to sleep."

As the call clicks shut, Jack takes a peaceful breath, knowing he has a warm home, a recovering little girl, and a wonderful wife waiting to share breakfast with him.

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