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Fear and Trembling (POV : The Mother-in-law)

One quiet summer afternoon, I was watching over my granddaughter, Lucy, as I always did when her parents were at work. She was such a lively child, full of energy and curiosity, always exploring every corner of the house. At just 4 years old, she had no fear, and it was hard to keep up with her.
That day, she had been playing in one of the bedrooms when she spotted an old doll sitting atop the cupboard. She immediately wanted to reach it. I watched as she dragged a stool over and tried to climb up. She wasn’t tall enough, so she kept stretching and tiptoeing at the edge of the stool, unaware that it was tipping dangerously.
Before I could react, the stool tipped over, and she fell backward. In her panic, she grabbed the edge of the cupboard for support, but her hand slammed into a large nail sticking out of the door. She screamed, and I rushed to her side, my heart pounding. Blood was everywhere, and I could see the deep gash in her tiny hand.
I was frantic. I grabbed a cloth to wrap around her hand and tried to calm her down, but she was crying uncontrollably. I knew I had to get her to the hospital immediately. I called my son-in-law, my voice shaking with panic. “Bashi Lucy, Lucy is hurt! I’m taking her to the hospital right now!”
He asked, “Where?! What happened?!” but I didn’t have time to explain. “She has a deep cut on her hand, a very deep cut!” I said, and then I hung up. I couldn’t waste another second. I carried Lucy to the car, her sobs breaking my heart, and drove as fast as I could to the hospital.
When we arrived, the doctors took her in right away. I sat in the waiting room, my hands trembling, replaying the accident in my mind. How could I have let this happen? I should have been watching her more closely. I should have moved that stool away. The guilt was overwhelming.
My son-in-law arrived soon after, his face pale with worry. He didn’t say much, but I could see the pain in his eyes. When we were allowed into the room, Lucy was lying on the bed, her hand being stitched up by the doctor. She was crying, her little body shaking with each sob. I felt so helpless, standing there, unable to do anything to ease her pain.
My son-in-law sat beside her, gently holding her and wiping her tears. He kept saying, “Sorry, my baby, I’m sorry,” and I could hear the anguish in his voice. I wanted to comfort him too, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but the words caught in my throat.
As the doctor finished the stitches and bandaged her hand, I felt a small sense of relief. The worst was over, but I knew the guilt would stay with me for a long time. When we left the hospital, I carried Lucy to the car, her bandaged hand resting gently on my shoulder. She was calmer now, but her face was still streaked with dried tears.
I didn’t know how I would face my daughter when she found out what had happened. I had promised to keep her child safe, and I had failed. All I could do was hope that Limpo would heal quickly and that her parents would forgive me.

Fear and Trembling (POV: The Dad)

One quiet summer afternoon I sat in the office when I got a phone call from my mother in law. The minute I answered the call I was greeted by a tone of panic and fear.
She was frantic, “Bashi Lucy, Lucy is hurt! I’m taking her to the hospital right now.”
“Where?! What happened?!”, I asked.
“She has a deep cut on her hand, a very deep cut!” And she cut the line! I tried calling back but there was no answer. I left everything and quickly got into the car and rushed to the hospital.
My daughter was only 4 years old at the time, and whenever my wife and I left for work we’d leave her with her grandmother for the day. Like every child at that age, she was energetic, active and curious about her surroundings, and there wasn’t a place she feared to venture in or around the house. She liked to run and jump, and climb on top of the furniture. Her grandparents couldn’t keep up with her.
On that fateful day, she had been playing in one of the bedrooms when she saw an old doll atop the cupboard and tried to climb onto a stool to reach for it. She wasn’t tall enough, and she kept lifting herself up, tiptoeing at the edge, but she wasn’t conscious of the gradual tipping of the stool.
As she stretched her hand further, the stool tipped off balance, and as she fell back and tried to hold on to the edge of the cupboard for support, she plunged her hand with her full weight into a large nail that was sticking out of the cupboard door. In her fear to fall to the floor beneath, she could not let go of the nail in time to avoid the deep cut that ensued!
It was terrible, and when I arrived to meet them at the hospital, the pain I felt as the doctor stitched her up was like it was my own hand which was injured and bleeding. She was in tears and confused the whole time. Her eyes were full of pain and sadness, and I hated the fact that I couldn’t do anything to make it easier for her, let alone less painful, except to touch her face, wipe the tears away, and say, “sorry my baby, I’m sorry”.
My troubled mind wandered off for a few seconds while the agony of the stitching continued, and I kept asking myself how my little angel would cope without the full use of her right hand. How will she eat? How will she play? How will she write? How will she find her way into this world without the simple human courtesy of a handshake?
Suddenly, I shook myself out of the sorrowful stupor, waking up to my daughter’s sobbing. The pain kept her hand constantly shaking and despite her grandmother’s firm hold, she pulled away, hoping for some relief, but none seemed to come as the painful trembling continued. I pulled a chair, gently picked her up and sat down next to the doctor, making sure she was comfortable in my lap. I told her she would be fine, and assured her it would all be over soon while the doctor waited. She calmed down as her breathing slowed and the tears on her face began to dry.
A few minutes and a few more stitches later, and a strap of bandage over the wound, the ordeal was over. I thanked the doctor and the three of us left the hospital. I wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of letting my wife know what had happened, and I did not return to work that day.

Fear and Trembling (POV: The second person)

One quiet summer afternoon, you sat in the office when you got a phone call from your mother-in-law. The minute you answered the call, you were greeted by a tone of panic and fear.
She was frantic, “Bashi Lucy, Lucy is hurt! I’m taking her to the hospital right now.”
“Where?! What happened?!” you asked.
“She has a deep cut on her hand, a very deep cut!” And she cut the line! You tried calling back, but there was no answer. You left everything you were doing, quickly got into the car, and rushed to the hospital.
Your daughter was only 4 years old at the time, and whenever you and your wife left for work, you’d leave her with her grandmother for the day. Like every child at that age, she was energetic, active, and curious about her surroundings, and there wasn’t a place she feared to venture in or around the house. She liked to run and jump, and climb on top of the furniture. Her grandparents couldn’t keep up with her.
On that fateful day, she had been playing in one of the bedrooms when she saw an old doll atop the cupboard and tried to climb onto a stool to reach for it. She wasn’t tall enough, and she kept lifting herself up, tiptoeing at the edge, but she wasn’t conscious of the gradual tipping of the stool.
As she stretched her hand further, the stool tipped off balance, and as she fell back and tried to hold on to the edge of the cupboard for support, she plunged her hand with her full weight into a large nail that was sticking out of the cupboard door. In her fear to fall to the floor beneath, she could not let go of the nail in time to avoid the deep cut that ensued!
It was terrible, and when you arrived to meet them at the hospital, the pain you felt as the doctor stitched her up was like it was your own hand that was injured and bleeding. She was in tears and confused the whole time. Her eyes were full of pain and sadness, and you hated the fact that you couldn’t do anything to make it easier for her, let alone less painful, except to touch her face, wipe the tears away, and say, “Sorry, my baby, I’m sorry.”
Your troubled mind wandered off for a few seconds while the agony of the stitching continued, and you kept asking yourself how your little angel would cope without the full use of her right hand. How will she eat? How will she play? How will she write? How will she find her way into this world without the simple human courtesy of a handshake?
Suddenly, you shook yourself out of the sorrowful stupor, waking up to your daughter’s sobbing. The pain kept her hand constantly shaking, and despite her grandmother’s firm hold, she pulled away, hoping for some relief, but none seemed to come as the painful trembling continued. You pulled a chair, gently picked her up, and sat down next to the doctor, making sure she was comfortable in your lap. You told her she would be fine and assured her it would all be over soon while the doctor waited. She calmed down as her breathing slowed and the tears on her face began to dry.
A few minutes and a few more stitches later, and a strap of bandage over the wound, the ordeal was over. You thanked the doctor, and the three of you left the hospital. You weren’t looking forward to the prospect of letting your wife know what had happened, and you did not return to work that day.

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