ARTHUR
I got home late Thursday night and peeked in Mia’s room.
Even in the dim light, I could see she had a bluish tint to her skin and lips.
I ran into the room and to her bedside.
Her rapid and labored breathing hurt my heart.
"Mia? Sweetheart?"
She feebly opened her eyes. “Daddy?” She sounded scared.
“How are you feeling, pumpkin?”
“I don’t feel too good.”
I put my hand on her forehead. She was running a slight fever.
Mia was sick, no doubt about it. I called my chauffeur and told him to get here right away.
“We’re going to take you to the hospital, sweetie. Just to be on the safe side.”
“Okay,” my daughter said weekly.
It was easy not to think about Mia’s congenital heart disease because she’s been okay for so long. Maybe this was just a cold or the flu, but I had a feel
