In sickness and in health.
The gooey mess on the kitchen floor was her doing. You sigh as you try to clean it up. You’re not sure if this is part of the agreement. You puke and I clean? No way! But it is clear someone has to do it. When you are done in the kitchen and you enter the bedroom, there she is, shivering under the covers like a poor sick child. It is evident that she is suffering and is in the throes of malaria. You cannot help but feel somewhat maternal towards her.
You remember when you had to undergo that minor procedure( as the doctors called it). It was nothing more than an inflamed appendix; one that kept you awake most nights and made you cry like a baby. You tried to bear up manfully but it was she who was strong for you. She lovingly gave you bed baths and catered to your every whim.
Now that the roles were reversed; nursing seems much harder to do. You cannot prepare her favorite meals. The house could not be cleaned. You are tempted to throw in the trowel and call her mother to come and take care of her sick daughter. You could even call her sister or her cousin. But you try to persevere. After all, she did that and more for you.
So far, you don’t seem to be making a good job out of it. The plates still fill the kitchen sink and your burned messes are in the pots, your very footstep raises dust whichever room you enter in the house and your bedroom is strewn with old clothes. Yet your little trials are but a light affliction when you go to her side and she says with a weak smile: “Thank you for taking care of me.”