The Cost of Wanting

When Logic Fails You

It hasn’t always been like this.

There was a time I thought safety could replace love — that if I married a man who was steady, practical, predictable, I’d never have to beg for affection or fear its absence.

I thought logic would protect me.

But logic doesn’t hold you when you’re bleeding. It doesn’t rock a crying baby at 2 a.m. It doesn’t look at you like you matter and try to comfort you.

That night, when I sat on the floor with my daughter screaming and my body aching from childbirth, I realized what I’d really chosen: a man who could offer me everything… except a hand when I needed him the most.

The storm shook the windows, every crack of thunder making Alina’s shrill cries pierce through the room even more.

I sat on the floor, head in my palms, propped up by my folded legs, while my daughter lay restless in the baby nest beside me, face flushed from fever, tiny fists waving in the air as if the world was already too cruel for her.

My body ached in every way imaginable—breasts sore, back aching, the burn between my legs relentless, and my head pounding from sleepless nights. My braided hair had fallen loose from a bun I hadn’t retied in days, my lips cracked, my nightwear sticky with spit and milk, and I couldn’t even remember the last time I had bathed.

All I knew was crying. Endless, piercing, exhausting crying. From both me and her.

No one told me a baby could be this draining.

I picked up my phone, finger hovering hesitantly over the contact of the only person who could help me.

I finally tapped it. “Zee?”

He answered on the fourth ring, with an almost annoyed tone.

I swallowed. “John…” “What now?”

“I-I just… need help, with the baby,” I sniffled, wiping my eyes with my hand. “She has been crying… from the thunder and the fever. I’ve t-tried all I can, but she won’t stop, and I haven’t slept, my body is still…” I took a breath to steady my shaking voice. “I don’t think I’m okay.”

I felt guilty asking him. What kind of mother couldn’t console her baby?

He sighed, making me feel like something of his running overtime. “I told you I have work, Zee. I can’t help you.”

Lies! He was in bed with his secretary. I saw her post, and I knew they had been together all through my pregnancy.

“Please. Just for a few hours. There’s no one else to help.”

“Well, take her to the hospital then!”

“I can’t drive in this state and weather!”

Another crack of thunder. Another sharp scream. I flinched at both.

“Please, John. There’s no one else. Z-Zara and Rania are at home for Eid, and Loveline traveled,” I begged, even more desperately between my tears.

I hated how cracked and raw my voice was. I hated begging him even more. I hated myself for being small, confused, and clueless. I hated the damn weather even… What I didn’t hate was my baby girl, and right now she was in so much discomfort it hurt more than whatever my body was going through.

I was past dignity. I was drowning.

John gave a sharp, annoyed sigh. “For crying out loud, stop being dramatic!”

I flinched at his tone, even though that was what he had always called me ever since I got pregnant: dramatic, overreacting, nagging, needy…

“You’re a doctor, Zina. You can cut open a chest but can’t handle a crying baby? Come on.”

The line buzzed against my ear as he went on about me overreacting, and how I needed to ‘get it together’.

I just stared at the floor wordlessly as more tears slid down my face, my hand slowly lowering the phone, his words still spilling but no longer reaching me.

Alina cried louder. The storm crashed harder.

And I sat there, feeling something inside me hardening with every passing second.

He would rather be with his lover than help with his own child.

That realization twisted something in me. I cut his call and picked my daughter up, holding her face to my chest. I made a promise within myself that day that I would never allow her to feel like that.

That version of me died that day in the storm, with the sound of John’s voice.

NEVER. Ever. Will I beg for his help again!

That day determined the true standing point of our marriage.

Five years later…

I still flinch at thunder, but she doesn’t scream at them anymore.

I was focused on the road ahead as I drove, mentally setting up a to-do list of what I needed to do once I got to my office, when Alina dragged my attention.

“Mummy, how come our hair is long like some of my pink classmates’ own?” she asked, mindlessly playing with her long braided hair in the backseat.

I froze, brows creasing. Rachael, her nanny sitting beside me, and I exchanged the same look.

Pink? Who…

“Your classmate is… pink?” Rachael asked.

“Yes. Many of them. Especially under the sun. Her skin looks a bit lighter than daddy’s own,” I exhaled, biting back the laugh about to leave my lips.

White. Her classmate was white. Though I suppose that’s a very five-year-old way to describe a white person.

“Our hair can grow long too, though. It just takes much more work and care, especially mine, but it does,” I answered.

“I haven’t seen anyone that looks like you with naturally long hair, though,” she retorted.

“Can you even tell the difference between an installed wig and natural hair?” I rolled my eyes with a small grin.

“Yes I can!” she pouted, folding her hands defensively over her chest.

Rachael chuckled. “What is happening at the hospital again?” she asked once more as we pulled into the hospital’s gates and parked underground.

“A children’s wellness fair. It’s going to be big and fun, with so many gifts and games, painting, and so much more, in that garden you like going to.”

She sighed as I opened the back door and picked her up with one hand to come out of the car, which was apparently too high off the ground for a child of even her tall height.

I held her hand, bag and coat in the other, as we all walked toward the hospital entrance.

“I would have wanted to keep Tiffany company instead,” she mumbled grudgingly.

“Well, she is sick and needs rest, and you need to be here,” I answered as we stepped into the huge, busy reception. The smell of sterilization and soft lemon filled my nose immediately.

“Good afternoon, Chief,” Maria, my assistant, and Brittany, the receptionist chorused upon seeing me.

“Good afternoon, ladies.”

“Maria! Brittany!” Alina squealed and rushed to hug them one after the other.

“Hello, sunshine. It’s been so long,” Maria said with a huge smile.

“I’m guessing you’re here for the fair,” she nodded.

“Maria, let me have my schedule first, then please take her and Rachael to where it’s happening.”

She handed me a clipboard, then took Alina’s hand and led her and Rachael away.

I walked into the elevator, reading the clipboard. Number one made my eyes widen:

A consultation/follow-up check with Don Gabriele Russo, my VVVIP patient at the moment, scheduled for 10 minutes from now.

Shit. How did I miss that?

I walked speedily to my office and rapidly prepared everything I needed before he arrived. At exactly five minutes later, Maria messaged me that he had arrived. I exhaled and gave her the go-ahead to let them in.

A few minutes later, Don Russo came through my door, a woman—maybe a little older than me—by his side. She looked like the feminine version of him, his exact look-alike, though pale and tired-looking. His daughter?

I stood to greet them both. He waved my formal greeting off and took his seat.

“Good morning, Dottoressa.”