June8,2026
Dear Diary,
The morning began with a shrill shout from my motherinlaw as she barged into the kitchen, eyes wide. What on earth is thiscaught a cold? Hows he doing? she demanded, pointing at my wife, Emily, who lay halfasleep on the sofa. Hes just sleeping. The temperatures only a touch up, nothing seriouswinters started, thats all.
She wasnt having it. It isnt just the cold! Its your job that brings home all this misery. How many times must I tell you to find a different line of work?
Emily drifted back into her slumber, but a sudden bang on the front door jolted me awake. I rubbed my eyes, glanced at the clock8a.m.and called out, Tom, love, is that you? I listened for any answer, but the house was silent except for the faint creak of the bathroom door opening.
I threw on a dressing gown, slipped barefoot into the bathroom, and swung the door wide. There, staring at his own reflection, stood Tom, stretching his lips into a grin and sticking out his tongue.
Emily, is it true that when someone catches a cold their tongue turns white? he asked, halfteasing.
Are you saying youve caught a cold? she murmured sleepily.
Looks like it, he replied, pressing a fingertip to his forehead. I need a thermometer. Wheres it? Let me lie down. Even work gave me the day off. I suppose well have to call a doctor.
I fetched the glass thermometer. It read 37.2°C (about 99°F). Just a mild fever, I noted, as the winter wind began to howl outside. The doctor arrived an hour later, handed us a sick note, and left.
I phoned my mother, June, who lived alone but adored her grandson, Sam. Could you pick Sam up from nursery? He cant come homeToms got a cold.
June was delighted to help. Is there anything serious with Tom? she asked.
No, nothing major. The doctor gave us the sick note, prescribed some rest. Well just be taking it easy.
How are you feeling? June pressed.
Im fine. Ive got a second shift at work tomorrow, so Ill ask my motherinlaw to pop over this evening to look after Tom. Thatll be a full week of double shifts for me. I thanked her, and we hung up.
What to do now? I needed to rustle up a light chicken broth, so a quick trip to the corner shop was in orderpharmacy first for any extra supplies, then the grocery for chicken thighs, carrots, and potatoes from the freezer.
At the pharmacy I gathered everything wed need. Back home, I nudged Tom awake.
Tom, get up and have some soup, I said, shaking his shoulder.
He sat up on the bed, looking pale. I feel a bit queasy. Could you bring the soup to me? I cant get to the kitchen.
Is it that bad? Fine, Ill bring it over. Then you can check your temperature again
He sipped the broth, and I measured his temperature once morestill 37.2°C. I handed him the tablets the doctor had prescribed. Tom turned his face to the wall and drifted back to sleep. Thank heavens.
In this household we cant afford him to be ill for long. Toms sick pay covers his absence entirely, but my own earnings barely keep the mortgage and the car loan afloat. I called Mrs. Clarke, Toms mother, to keep an eye on him that evening.
Mrs. Clarke, Toms got a cold. If anything changes, could you check on him tonight? We usually have a crowd of customers in the evening and I cant get through to him.
Mrs. Clarke burst out, What do you mean caught a cold? Hows he doing?
Hes just sleeping. Fevers low, nothing alarming, just the start of winter.
Thats not just winter! Its your job that brings all this home! How many times must I tell you to change work! she retorted.
Im not weak, Mrs. Clarke! You yourself said Tom was a sturdy lad as a child. The frost is coming, so I really dont have a choice
Not wanting to argue further, I cut her off. She liked to make a mountain out of a molehill, and shed probably be at my door within the hour with a sack of herbal teas for Tom. Let her have her look; I needed to get ready for my shift.
True enough, Mrs. Clarke arrived, arms laden with jars of homemade infusions, insisting they might help. She swapped Toms damp shirt for a dry one, shaking her head.
Look at him in that wet shirthell get sicker. How could you miss that? she scolded.
He was already asleep, what could I have done? I replied, trying to keep my cool.
I headed out to work, but a few hours later the weakness crept up on me too. The fever spiked a notch higher than Toms. I wanted to complain to Tom, but he was lost in his own world, scrolling on his phone.
My throats raw, a shiver runs through me. Mom gave me tea with elderberries and honey; it helped a bit, but by nightfall I was still feeling lousy. What should I take?
Youre not the only one feeling ill, Tom muttered, glancing at his tongue in the mirrorstill pale. Take something, then.
I swallowed the tablets, keeping quiet about my own discomfort. Grumbling to anyone would only bring a flood of unsolicited advice from June or accusations from Mrs. Clarke, and Tom would just brush it off as his own drama.
We decided, silently, to push through: take the medicine, keep earning, and let the loans linger. The whole week Tom moaned about his weakness, even though the thermometer never rose above 37°C. He claimed he felt dreadful, while the rest of us tried to keep the house running.
Mrs. Clarkes visits became a daily routineher teas, her chatter, her endless critiques. I preferred to avoid her as much as possible; her presence made the house feel more oppressive. Tom, meanwhile, dozed off in front of the television or his phone, oblivious to the mounting stress.
On the fourth day, I finally checked his temperature again: back to normal. The mild illness passed, albeit slowly. Tom lingered in bed longer than necessary, demanding meals delivered to him, temperature checks, and a glass of water at each turn. Mrs. Clarke kept reminding us how frail hed been as a child, now finally catching a cold after five years of marriageshe called it unbearable.
By the next week the doctor cleared Tom, and Sam was picked up from nursery and taken home. Tom would be back at work tomorrow.
Sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, Tom opened up:
When we were kids, getting a cold was no big deal. Now it feels like the end of the world you wouldnt understand!
Whats so special about it? Why cant you just tough it out? I asked.
If you were in my shoes, youd see how hard it is. Easy to talk when youre healthy.
I was there, too! I went through the same, but you just didnt notice.
Tom gave me a dubious look, then a sly grin, as if hed caught me off guard. Joking, are you? Alright, lets get some sleep.
I let out a sigh, realizing hed still missed the point.
And that, dear diary, is the lesson Im taking away from all of this: when life throws a mild fever your way, the real illness is not the temperatureits the pressure to keep appearing strong for everyone else while silently fearing the bills pile up. Sometimes the best remedy is simply to acknowledge the weakness, accept help, and remember that a cold does not define our worth.
