★

You stared hard at the entrance anyway, jaw tight.

“Honey,” John tried again, softer this time as he reached across the console for your hand. “Please?”

You gently pulled away before he could lace his fingers with yours. “Let me be mad at you.”

A long sigh left him. The car settled into silence except for the hum of the air conditioning and the faint crinkle of the plastic grocery bag sitting at your feer that was currently holding the all of the snacks you apparently weren’t trusted to eat anymore.

In the backseat, movement abruptly stilled as your toddler stopped halfway through climbing over his car seat. He had a toy dinosaur hanging from one hand and his sippy cup clutched in the other. He’d spent the last forty minutes entertaining himself while he and John waited for your appointment to end, blissfully unaware that his mother had just been informed her body had betrayed her over a cup of orange sugar sludge.

“Mama mad?” he chirped, peeking over the center console with wide eyes.

“Yes,” you answered before you could stop yourself. “Your daddy started it.”

John looked personally wounded. “Oh, that’s not fair.”

Your son immediately dropped his cup to grab a fistful of John’s sweatshirt shoulder, glaring down at him with all the seriousness a three-year-old could summon.

“Sweet treat?” he asked firmly.

A laugh threatened to escape you despite your mood, but John beat you to it, huffing a tired chuckle through his nose. “No more sweet treats, bud.”

The devastation that crossed your son’s face was immediate and profound. “Cake pop?”

“How about another day?” John offered weakly.

The pout deepened. “Mama promised after doctor.”

Your chest squeezed painfully at that. Before the appointment, before your blood sugar numbers had apparently detonated every dietary guideline known to modern medicine, you had promised him a cake pop after the doctor. You’d promised yourself one too. One stupid little reward for surviving another prenatal appointment where strangers measured your body and reminded you of all the terrifying things that could potentially go wrong. Instead, you’d sat on crinkly exam paper while a very kind nurse practitioner explained gestational diabetes with the careful voice people used around patients they expected might cry. 

Not borderline. Not “watch your sugars a little more closely.” You had failed, according to John’s extremely unhelpful summary as he read your paperwork.

You still wanted to strangle him for using that word.

“Baby,” you sighed, rubbing one hand over your forehead, “Mama can’t have sweet treats anymore until your baby sister comes.”

Your son blinked at you in confusion, then slowly leaned forward until his little palm rested against the center of your bump. “Can she be born now?”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Not unless you want her to come out looking like a salamander.”

“Yuck,” he whispered immediately, recoiling in horror.

John snorted beside you, and you shot him another look sharp enough to cut glass.

The drive home passed under a cloud of miserable silence broken only by periodic negotiations from the backseat.

“One donut?”

“No, buddy.”

“Half donut?”

“No.”

“Tiny donut? Baby donut?”

“No.”

You sat there stewing while rain tapped softly against the windshield and your cravings became progressively more violent out of pure spite. The unfairness of it all gnawed at you. You weren’t someone who lived off junk food. You cooked balanced meals. You ate vegetables. You drank water. You took your prenatals religiously. Your husband was literally a doctor, for God’s sake. Your kitchen looked like the nutritional equivalent of a wellness blog most weeks.

But you liked things, as did John. You indulged in them all together from sugary iced coffees to powdered mini donuts. And most recently, the occasional late-night cosmic brownie while standing barefoot in the kitchen after he put your son to sleep. 

Apparently those tiny joys had now become criminal offenses.

By the time you pulled into the driveway, your mood had curdled completely. You climbed carefully out of the car with one hand pressed to your aching lower back while John unbuckled your son, who immediately sprinted toward the front door shouting, “Snack time!”

You nearly burst into tears right there in the driveway.

The second the front door shut behind all of you, John transformed into the version of him that you knew well. His jaw would tighten and his eyes would stop that signature sparkle as he settled into his emergency department attending with a mission look. Unfortunately, he wasn’t focused on a patient now, but rather your pantry. 

“John,” you warned as he rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

“I’m serious,” he replied, already opening cabinet doors. “We need to clean this stuff out.”

“We absolutely do not.” Your voice softened as your mood passed as you realized how ridiculous you felt. “You don’t need to punish yourselves.” 

“Honey—”

“No. We can compromise like normal people.”

“We are compromising. I’m leaving the peanut butter crackers.”

You stared at him in disbelief as he began pulling things out one by one. Family-sized bags of chips hit the counter first. Then the large box of cookies. He fished out boxes of the granola bars that were more sugar than anything and leftover snack cakes. He set boxes of cereal on the counter and even the hidden pack of Oreos he pretended never existed but you always felt the crumbs on his side of the bed. He raised his eyebrows as he held up the king sized chocolate bar you tucked behind the rice cooker. 

You pointed accusingly, keeping your amusement at bay. “You have no right to mess with my emergency chocolate.”

“You literally married a physician.”

“That doesn’t give you search-and-seizure authority over my snacks.”

Your son wandered into the kitchen just in time to witness the massacre. He froze in place as John tossed a package of mini blueberry muffins into a garbage bag.

“Nooooo,” he whispered.

John crouched slightly, trying to soften the blow. “Buddy, Mama and baby sister need healthier foods right now.”

Your son clutched a box of frosted cookies protectively against his chest. “But they live here.”

You had to turn away because the laugh trying to escape was dangerously close to becoming a sob instead. John gently pried the cookies from tiny hands while your son watched in absolute despair. You watched in growing horror as your husband opened the doors and simply stared for a moment, like a man surveying a battlefield.

“Oh, come on,” you muttered defensively from your spot leaning against the counter. “It’s not that bad.”

John slowly reached for the giant caramel coffee creamer first, technically his purchase but you used more of it that he did. “This has twenty grams of sugar per serving.”

“So?”

“Honey.”

Next came the bottled frappes you kept shoved behind the orange juice for “emergencies,” which really meant mornings after sleepless nights with your toddler climbing into bed sideways like a tiny possessed octopus. Then the whipped cream canister disappeared into the trash too, earning another yelp from your son. 

John ignored him, though the corners of his mouth twitched with guilt. He pulled out the roll of cookie dough next, pausing briefly as though even he understood the severity of this particular loss.

You pointed immediately. “Leave that one.”

“Honey.”

“I’m serious,” you said. 

John chewed his lip before placing it back in the door. He picked up the box of Go-Gurts and your son finally stepped forward. 

“No! Daddy no!” he cried, abandoning the dinosaur in his hands to sprint toward the fridge. “Mine!”

John crouched automatically, catching him before he could launch himself at the yogurt box. “Buddy, these have a lotta sugar.”

“They strawberry!”

“I know.”

“I need strawberry!”

You covered your mouth to hide your laugh because the genuine anguish in his voice was almost too much. John looked dangerously close to caving for half a second before he sighed heavily and tossed the box into the trash too. Your son stared after it in stunned silence. Then, to your confusion, John straightened and reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

You frowned. “What are you doing?”

Without answering, he crossed the kitchen and yanked open the junk drawer. The familiar metallic scrape of scissors sliding against pens and batteries made your stomach tighten immediately.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“Just for good measure,” he muttered.

Your eyes widened as he pulled out his Dunkin loyalty card, the black one he guarded like a member of the family because it had years of rewards points stacked onto it from post-shift coffees and early morning drive-thru runs together.

“Baby, your points,” you gasped, pushing off the counter as quickly as your pregnant body allowed. “John!”

Your son, sensing fresh tragedy, whipped around immediately. “Daddy no! My Munchkins!”

John held the card over his head before either of you could grab it, looking maddeningly calm despite the outrage building in his kitchen.

“If my wife can’t have sugar,” he said firmly, “then I won’t either.”

“John, be serious. This is going too far.”

“I am serious.”

“You have, like, twelve free drinks on that card!”

“Sacrifices must be made.”

The scissors snapped shut, the card falling to the ground into two pieces. You stared at him in complete disbelief. Your toddler looked like he’d just witnessed an execution, his hands pressed to his cheeks. For one long second, the kitchen went silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the rain tapping softly against the windows.

“No more Munchkins?” Your son gasped, gripping your leg tightly. 

You doubled over laughing before you could stop yourself, one hand braced against your belly while tears sprang instantly into your eyes. Hormones and exhaustion hit all at once until you were half laughing, half crying against the counter.

John pointed accusingly at you while your toddler sobbed dramatically against your leg. “This reaction is exactly why the cards had to go.”

You cackled, wiping tears of amusement from your eyes. “Baby.” 

“If you’re suffering, I’m suffering,” he shrugged, kissing your cheek gently and pulled you into a hug. 

“You're so romantic,” you murmured against his shoulder. “I love you.” 

John sighed against the crown of your head. “I love you too.” 

Your son looked up at John with watery eyes and asked the question weighing on all your hearts.

“…Can baby sister hurry up?”

+++

John slowly closed the door to your bedroom and set the monitor on his side of the bed. Rain still tapped lazily against the bedroom windows while you sat propped against the headboard in one of John’s old T-shirts, absently rubbing lotion over the tight curve of your stomach.

The mattress dipped a moment later as John finally climbed into bed beside you, exhausted from purging the rest of the kitchen of everything else you’d both been neglecting for months. .

“Finally asleep?” you murmured.

“Barely.” He groaned quietly as he settled onto his back. “He asked me if baby sister was going to apologize for the donuts.”

You snorted softly. John turned his head toward you in the dim light, his hair still slightly damp from his shower, T-shirt hanging loose over gray sweatpants. “I think I traumatized him.”

You reached for his hand. “Thank you, honey.” 

A tired smile tugged briefly at his mouth before the room fell quiet again. The rain softened further outside. Somewhere downstairs, the ice maker cracked loudly in the freezer. You shifted deeper beneath the blankets with a small sigh. John rubbed a hand over his face.

After a long moment of silence, he muttered toward the ceiling, “I want a donut so bad right now.” 

You groaned. “Me too.” You rolled onto your side to look at him fully. “I would commit crimes for a cinnamon roll right now.”

He dragged both hands down his face dramatically. “You’re evil.”

“You started this war.”

John turned his head slowly on the pillow until his eyes met yours in the dark. You watched the exact moment the thought crossed his mind, just as the same thought crossed yours. His gaze drifted lazily over your face before lowering slightly, lingering at your mouth.

“Well,” he said carefully after a beat, voice quieter now, “technically… not all sweet things are off limits.”

You laughed softly under your breath right before he kissed you.

As Baran slips out of bed and into her robe, she spots your crutches still leaning against your bedside table, the sight causing her to rush out into the kitchen.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Your wife’s sharp tone freezes you. After a beat, you turn slowly—well, turn as well as you can on one foot.

“Making breakfast,” you answer slowly.

“And breaking all of our dishes in the process?” Baran raises a challenging brow, and you have the decency to shrink.

“I–” you pause, unable to come up with a valid excuse. You know your wife is angry, and rightfully so, but more so, you can see the concern written in her face.

“Baby.” Baran softens as she crosses the kitchen. When she’s within arms reach of you, she puts her hand on your hip and you immediately transfer your weight from the counter and into her embrace. “You should be in bed.”

You huff, lightly placing your hand on your wife’s shoulder to balance yourself. “I was hungry.”

“Then you should’ve woken me up, azizam,” Baran counts, her voice teetering on the line between wife and doctor.

“You just worked a double, Baran. You need your rest.” You shoot her a pointed look before shrugging. “Besides, you spend all day taking care of patients. I don’t want to be another one on the list.”

At this, Baran frowns. She knows breaking your foot has been causing you more frustration than pain. You haven’t said anything yet, but she sees the subtle signs—both as a physician and as your wife.

“You’re not another patient for me to take care of,” Baran says, her chocolate orbs boring into your eyes as she brushes a hair from your face. “You are my wife. Eshgham. Nafasam. To hameye zendegimi.”

Baran kisses your forehead softly before resting her own against yours. “My love. My breath. You are my whole life,” she translates and squeezes your waist.

You crack a small smile, trying to ignore the burning in your eyes. “I love you too,” you reply before kissing her properly. The feeling of her lips against yours never gets old, no matter how many years you’ve been together.

“Next time,” she mumbles, her breath still warm against your mouth, “come to me. Promise?”

“amma, why is mom on the couch?”

samira smiles as their son bats at emery’s face, peering at her curiously, making her stir. “because mom had too much fun with uncle jack last night and came home smelling of the outdoors.” she answered.

norah frowns. “but why is she on the couch?”

teddy pokes emery’s cheek. “she does smell.”

emery groans and pushes his hand away, burying her face further into the cushions. “no, I don’t. g’away.”

samira rolls her eyes and laughs. “come on you two, up at the table. your breakfast will get cold.”

they do as they’re told, both eyeing their mother’s stirring figure as emery turns over on the couch, ruffling the blanket that had been draped over her, pressing her hand to her forehead.

the smell of food was making her feel sick.

norah took a sip of her orange juice. “is mom in trouble?”

“uh-huh.” samira said, pouring a glass of water. she could already feeling emery scowling at her from the couch.

teddy grinned through a mouthful of cereal. “loads of trouble?”

she laughed gently. “no, not loads. just…a normal amount. mom was being very naughty and was out past her bedtime.” she padded over to where emery was and crouched down, offering the water to her very grouchy looking wife. “-and I think mom is old enough to know better by now, hm?”

emery glared. “m’not too old.” she muttered, taking the water and lifting her head slightly. “still in my prime.”

“uh-huh, sure.”

emery was still wearing the same clothes from last night, except for the leather jacket she had which samira had draped over a chair when she’d found her stumbling in at four in the morning. her hair, still dark and long enough to nearly reach her elbows, was tangled and frizzy, sticking up at all angles.

samira waited for her to drink the whole glass before setting it aside and putting the back of her hand to emery’s forehead.

“did you at least have a good evening?” she asked quietly.

“mhm, think so.” emery murmured back, her voice a little scratchy, which made samira smile. “i don’t remember a lot of it.”

“sounds like you hit the karaoke bar.”

“it feels like i hit many things.”

samira laughed gently and nudged in a little closer. “I’ll get the shower running, make you something easy to eat, find you some fresh clothes and then maybe get you some actual rest?”

emery smiles tiredly. “you’re very good to me.”

“caring for the elderly…it’s one of my talents.”

“oh…” her nose wrinkled. “that’s cruel. I take it back.”

samira smiles and puts a kiss to emery’s forehead, grimacing slightly at how clammy it is. she gets up again and roots around in the kitchen cupboards for a bucket, passing it to teddy once he’d finished eating.

“can you put that in front of your mom for me?”

he looked at her, his frown identical to emery’s. “why?”

“because I value my carpet and mommy’s looking gross. go.”

unsatisfied with the answer, he does as he’s told, hopping down from the table and letting the bucket clatter loudly against the floor, making emery wince.

“this is for you, mom. amma says you smell bad.”

“mm,” emery lifted her head again wearily. “I think I recall it was you that said I smell bad, buddy.”

“what does recall mean?”

“like, to remember.” she managed. “you remember something, you recall something.”

“oh.” his eyes roamed over her for a moment, taking in her pale face and tired expression. “well, i recall you smelling bad.”

she laughed before she could stop herself, another dull wave of nausea making her groan. teddy was biologically her son but personality-wise, he’d inherited samira’s wise cracks just like his sister.

“that was very good, bud. well done.”

he tilted his head. “are you going to be sick?”

“probably.”

“are you going to die?”

“i hope not.” she said softly. “I’ve got you to look after me, haven’t i?”

“I’m not a doctor.” he said seriously. “you’re the doctor.”

“oh no, whatever will we do!” she grinned and suddenly grabbed him, making him yelp as she pulled him into a cuddle, ignoring how her stomach turned over at the movement. “you’ll have to put this on my headstone, kid. here lies beloved mom, dead because her son wasn’t a doctor yet and couldn’t look after her!”

“no!”

“yes!”

“no!” he turned in her grip, burying his face into her chest. “you’re not allowed to die.” he mumbled quietly. “not ever.”

she cuddled him closer, letting the laughter fade out. “I’m not going to die, baby.” she said softly into his hair. “okay?”

“promise?”

she stroked the back of his neck, sighing. teddy may have inherited samira’s jokes but he’d also taken on a lot of her anxiety as well, making him very serious for a five-year-old.

“i promise.” she murmured. “i’m not going to die.”

he burrowed in closer, his forehead in the crook of her neck, his little hands tightly fisting her t-shirt. she held him like that for a few moments, running her hand up and down his back, soothing him.

“I’m not going to die, ted.” she whispered again. “I promise.”

“okay.” he nuzzled against her skin. “mom?”

“mm?”