Wedding Crisis Unveiled

The bail hearing was a blur of fluorescent lights and legal jargon. Twenty-four hours in a holding cell had left me hollow, my body aching from the blast and my mind reeling from Robert's betrayal. When I finally walked free, the first thing I did was call my supervisor.

"Ford, don't bother coming in," Captain Morrison's voice was granite through the phone. "Internal Affairs finished their review. You're terminated, effective immediately. Your badge and credentials are suspended pending criminal proceedings."

The line went dead. Fifteen years of service. Gone.

I drove home through Queens traffic, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. The house looked normal from the outside—red brick, white shutters, the tire swing Robert had hung from the oak tree last spring. But normalcy was a lie now. Everything was contaminated.

I found Birdie in the living room, curled on the couch with her favorite blanket. She looked smaller than she had three days ago, her skin pale and waxy. Dark circles shadowed her eyes.

"Mama?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "I don't feel good."

I knelt beside her, pressing my palm to her forehead. No fever, but her breathing was shallow, labored. "Where's your inhaler, baby?"

"Selena said I didn't need it today." Birdie's eyelids fluttered. "She gave me my pills, though. The big white ones."

My blood turned to ice. I rushed to the kitchen, yanking open the medication cabinet. Birdie's heart pills sat in their usual spot—a small amber bottle with a child-proof cap. I shook it. The pills rattled, but something was wrong. They looked different. Rounder. Whiter.

I grabbed the bottle and ran back to Birdie, my hands shaking as I read the label. Everything looked normal—her name, the dosage, Robert's signature. But the pills inside weren't the small, pale yellow tablets I'd been giving her for months.

"Birdie, when did Selena give you these?"

"This morning. And yesterday. And the day before." Each word was an effort. "She said Daddy wanted her to take care of me while you were gone."

Three days. Three days of the wrong medication.

I called Robert immediately. His phone went straight to voicemail. I tried the hospital.

"Dr. Andrews is in surgery," the receptionist said. "Can I take a message?"

"This is his wife. It's about our daughter. It's an emergency."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Andrews, but Dr. Andrews left strict instructions not to be disturbed. He's performing a valve replacement and—"

I hung up and called 911.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"My daughter—she has a heart condition, and I think she's been given the wrong medication. She's having trouble breathing."

"Ma'am, is she conscious?"

I looked at Birdie. Her eyes were closed, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. "Yes, but barely."

"We're dispatching an ambulance now. Stay on the line."

By the time Robert finally called back, the paramedics were loading Birdie into the ambulance. I was climbing in beside her when my phone rang.

"Maia, what the hell is going on? The hospital said you called about Birdie?"

"She's sick, Robert. Really sick. I think Selena gave her the wrong pills."

"That's impossible. Selena is a medical professional. You're being paranoid."

"I'm not being paranoid!" I screamed into the phone as the ambulance doors slammed shut. "Your daughter is dying!"

"My daughter is stable. I checked her vitals myself this morning before I left for work. You're stressed, Maia. You're projecting your guilt about the explosion onto—"

"Don't you dare." My voice was deadly quiet. "Don't you dare blame this on me."

"You're a destroyer, Maia. Everything you touch turns to ash. First the bomb site, now this. You're making Birdie sick with your hysteria."

The line went dead. I stared at the phone, my hands shaking with rage and terror.

That evening, Robert came home as I was giving Birdie her medication. He sat at the kitchen table, texting constantly, his face illuminated by the blue glow of his screen. Every few seconds, a small smile would tug at his lips.

"Daddy?" Birdie's voice was weak from the couch. "Can you read to me?"

"In a minute, sweetheart," Robert said, not looking up from his phone. "Daddy's busy."

I watched him type, watched him smile at whatever Selena was sending him, watched him ignore our dying daughter. The rage in my chest was molten, but I swallowed it. For Birdie.

"I made dinner," I said.

Robert finally looked up. "I'm not hungry."

"Birdie needs to eat. The medication works better with food."

He sighed and pocketed his phone. We sat at the table in silence, Birdie picking at her mashed potatoes. She was so pale, so fragile. Every breath seemed like it might be her last.

"Mama," she whispered, "my chest hurts."

Then she collapsed.

The sound she made—a small, choked gasp—will haunt me forever. She clutched her chest, her small fingers clawing at her shirt, her face turning blue.

"Call 911!" I screamed at Robert as I dropped to my knees beside her. "Call 911 right now!"

I started CPR, pumping her tiny chest, breathing into her lungs. "Come on, baby. Come on, Birdie. Stay with me."

Robert was on the phone, his voice calm and clinical as he gave our address. Too calm. Too controlled.

"Breathe, Birdie. Please breathe."

But she didn't.