“Can I speak to the doctor?” he asked the nurse who was standing by the other side of the bed.

“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.