“He is doing his rounds now,” she replied looking at her watch. “But he will be here again in half an hour.”

Omar leaned over and kissed Alba on the forehead. She felt warm. He pressed his hand on her cheek, which felt cool. Her eyelids fluttered and opened.

“Papa…” she whispered and started crying.

Omar sat on the chair, pulled it closer to the bed, pressed his lips on her cheek and said, “Papa’s here, baby girl, papa’s here.”

It wasn’t much of a birthday.

Alba had to be on antibiotics for a week, and how she hated that bitter yellow liquid! How she wailed and cried and screamed. How she lost weight, and colour from her face. How weak she became, how fragile and helpless she seemed. How listless and fretful she was. Nothing pleased her. Nothing made her happy. Not the cartoons she loved, not the music, not the pens nor colour pencils, nor the books, nor the bubble baths. She cried endlessly, she would not sleep, she would not give us any rest.

When Omar said he had to leave again, I screamed at him. I lunged at him and said that I had not slept in days, that I was tired. So, so tired. Please, Omar, don’t leave. Can’t you tell them that your daughter is sick? That I can’t cope? Please, Omar, I am begging you. Please, Omar… Please.

But he would not listen, he left anyway, saying that the job had to be done, that people depended on him, that promises had to be kept, that Alba was well enough, that she was eating again, and sleeping more. That I had to be strong, that children get sick, and that they are stronger than we think. That it will be fine. It will be fine, Del, it will be fine.

And so he left. And I was alone again with Alba.

And in my tiredness, and in my fatigue and in my day-old pyjamas, unwashed, oily hair and face, furry teeth and seething anger, I screamed at my sick child crying in her cot, at her standing there crying, in unchanged nappy and streaming snot, I screamed at her and said things that I should not have, I wailed and cried and tore at my hair and pyjamas and curled up on the floor I wept like her, my child staring at me wailing, and I like a crazed creature, spouting curses and venom, squirming in rage, my toes curling, my fingers reaching to grasp, pick, throw, shatter, all things in my way, I crawled on all fours until I reached the fridge and uncorking the bottle, drinking all that was in there, all the liquid that was clear and cold and refreshing and I drank it all until I was sated, the liquid fire silencing me, silencing all that pain, silencing it all, until my head felt light, and the stillness washed over me like a fog, and gave me sleep.