Go yourself, — he said irritably. — Why are you whining? A bit of fever won’t kill you.

I closed my eyes and pressed a cold compress to my forehead. It hurt even to get out of bed. I endured it, hoping the fever would pass on its own.

Suddenly my husband walked into the room.

— What? You didn’t cook anything all day? — his voice was demanding and harsh.

— No, I have a fever, it’s hard for me to even stand up, — I answered quietly.

— And what about me coming home hungry from work? Don’t you want to feed me?

— If you go to the pharmacy to get medicine, I’ll be able to get up and make dinner, — I tried to explain.