For the first week after Mary's fever began, Daniel took charge of everything.
He woke earlier to make breakfast, got the children ready for school, managed his shop during the day, and returned home to tend to her in the evenings. Mary's fever came and went, but her strength didn't return as quickly as he had hoped.
Word of her illness traveled fast, as it always did in their close-knit town. By the fourth day, her eldest sister, Ruth, arrived with a basket of soup and bread. Her entrance was a burst of noise - greetings in a voice just too loud, kisses on Mary's cheeks, questions that didn't give enough time for answers.
"You've lost weight," Ruth said, touching Mary's arm as if to confirm. "Daniel, are you making sure she's eating properly?"
Daniel smiled politely. "She's eating as much as she can."
Later that evening, two more of Mary's relatives came - a cousin and an aunt - each bringing something: herbs, fruits, home remedies. They gathered around the kitchen table while Daniel poured tea. It was almost a relief, at first. Their presence filled the house with chatter, and Mary seemed to enjoy the company.
But soon, the conversation shifted.
"You said this started suddenly?" Ruth asked.
"Yes," Daniel replied. "One evening she just - "
"Sometimes sudden sickness is not natural," Mary's aunt interrupted, her eyes narrowing slightly.
Daniel's hand stilled on the teapot handle. "You mean an infection?"
"I mean," the aunt said slowly, "not everything can be explained by the hospital."
Mary gave a weak laugh. "Auntie, please. It's just fever."
But her cousin leaned forward, elbows on the table. "These days, you never know who you can trust. Even the people you live with."
Daniel looked up sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, nothing," she said quickly, waving her hand. "Just that sometimes illness comes from… the company we keep."
It was subtle, the way they said it - like a shadow sliding over the table. The words were wrapped in smiles, but their eyes were searching, measuring him.
That night, as Daniel cleared the cups, he heard the low murmur of voices from the bedroom where the women sat with Mary. He couldn't make out every word, but phrases drifted through the half-closed door:
"…you have to be careful…"
"…men like that…"
"…don't tell him everything…"
When he entered with a tray, the conversation stopped mid-sentence. Smiles returned, but they felt different now - too practiced, too thin.
As he helped Mary settle into bed, she touched his hand. "They mean well," she said softly.
Daniel nodded, but inside, a small unease took root - an unease that would, in time, grow into something far darker.