She answers by plopping the hand towel down on the back of my neck like she must have seen Waylon do countless times over the last three months and ordering me, “Feel betta, Mama!”

See what I mean by commanding but sweet?

But Waylon always wrings the towels he gives me out, and she forgot that critical step in her eagerness to help. Now I’m the one trying not to curse as cold water drips down my back. Luckily, I managed to get my braids pulled up into a messy half-bun before I made my sacrifice to the toilet bowl, or my hair would be wet too.

“Mama okay?” Antonia asks when I fling the towel dripping cold water down my back off my neck. She pats my shoulder, her tiny voice filled with concern.

“Mama’s fine,” I assure her, even though I can feel a terrible headache coming on—the kind that Tylenol can’t solve, only sleep, which I don’t have time for today with Waylon gone. “Just let me get cleaned up, and I’ll get you over to the daycare.”

Antonia squints at me like I’m a patient with a heavy beer gut claiming that I only drink once or twice a month.

Then she leans over the phone to tell Waylon, “Mama no okay.”

“I know, baby angel.” Waylon sounds like he’s about to murder someone, but his anger never scares Antonia. Or me anymore—especially in this case. I know he’s only pissed because he’s not here. “You need to call somebody to come over there and help you out.”

“Nope, nope, I’ve got five patients I’m supposed to be seeing today.” Practical Nurse me kicks back in even as another wave of nausea washes over me. But I swallow it down and assure Waylon, “I'll clean myself up, and drop Antonia off, go into work. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“Fuck work,” Waylon says. “You need to rest.”

This time, inconveniently, Antonia doesn’t distract him with a scold about cussing. In fact, she co-signs his order.

“Mama sleep!” she commands like she’s the little boss of me.

I tamp down another dry heave and climb to my feet to prove to both of them that I’m already feeling better.

“I'll be fine,” I insist to Waylon, picking the phone up off the floor to give him the best smile I can muster. “I'm sorry for calling you. It’s just baby hormones.”

“I should’ve never let you talk me into agreeing to come here,” Waylon grumbles, scowling back at me from the screen.

“What happened to you not being the should’ve guy?” I tease.

“Three months straight of morning sickness, that’s what,” he answers, tossing my words right back at me.

The doorbell rings, and I'm almost relieved.