A few months ago, it was 3 a.m. when my youngest started running a fever. The kind of fever that doesn’t wait. That doesn’t negotiate. That doesn’t let anyone sleep.
I stayed in bed with him, trying everything I had at home. Syrup. A syringe. A spoon. A cup. Mixed with water, as if that would convince a small body to cooperate. But nothing worked.
He kept his mouth shut. Turned his face away. Spat it out. Cried. And I stayed there. For an hour. Maybe more. Alone. The pharmacies were open. 24 hours. But I had two kids at home. And a thought I couldn’t shake: if I call an Uber to get suppositories… I’m opening the door to a stranger, at this hour, with two children inside.
I didn’t do it. I called their father. Asked for help. I said I needed him to go get them. The fever kept rising. I had tried everything.
He lives nearby. Very nearby. But he didn’t go. He called an Uber instead and sent it to me with the medication.
Some decisions sound small when you tell them. But that night, they weren’t small. And I understood that with a clarity I never asked for.
Last weekend, my oldest went away with his father. I stayed home with the youngest. Luckily, my brother and sister-in-law were visiting. And I say “luckily” like someone holding on to something solid.
Because that night, my son spent hours vomiting. Gastroenteritis. The kind that doesn’t let anyone rest. He threw up over and over again. I lost count. I changed his clothes. Changed the sheets. Cleaned the floor. Cleaned him. Cleaned myself. My brother helped when he could.
And in the middle of it all, there was still a house full of noise, movement, small emergencies that don’t fit into lists. And all I could think was: what if I were alone? Truly alone. No one here.
He wouldn’t let go of me. And I couldn’t let go of him. I would have managed, of course. But isn’t everything just a little easier when you have an extra pair of hands?
Now the virus has reached me. And my oldest has chickenpox. I have both kids at home. I’m working at the same time. Trying to hold everything together with hands that no longer reach far enough.
Last night was worse. I went to the bathroom and stayed there, throwing up. Half an hour. Maybe more. And I heard my youngest crying. Then my oldest. Calling me.
And I had to get up. I had to interrupt my own body. And go. Because there is no pause for this. There is no “I’ll be right back.”
I called again. Their father. I told him I needed him to come and stay the night. Because I was scared. Scared of being in the bathroom and not being able to get to them. Scared of a fever rising. Of crying that wouldn’t stop. Of a “mom” going unanswered. He didn’t come.
And this is where a part of separation lives that no one really talks about. It’s not just the end of a relationship. It’s not just emotional distance. It’s this. The everyday life when everything happens at once. And there is no safety net. Or there is, but it’s not there.
I’ve been thinking about things I never thought I would. Like teaching my four-year-old how to call emergency services. Or how to ask the neighbours for help. But then I stop. Because he is still too young to carry that kind of responsibility. And I don’t want him to grow up with that weight. But I also don’t want a day to come when I can’t reach him in time.
So I stay in this strange place. Between instinct and fear. Between need and guilt.
There were things that used to be simple. Fever. Vomiting. A difficult night. Now they aren’t. Now everything has layers. Logistics. Decisions. Absences. Silence.
And no one prepares you for this. For the moment you realize that being a single mother is not just an expression. It is a practical reality. One that doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t wait. Doesn’t fail.
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