That night, our two little girls had high fevers, but their grandmother absolutely refused to let us take them to the hospital. The next morning, when she heard us wailing and calling for a doctor, no one could have imagined what would happen.

That night, our twin daughters—just over one year old—suddenly spiked a high fever. Their bodies were burning, their eyes half-closed, their breathing labored. My wife and I frantically begged their grandmother to let us take them to the hospital immediately.

But she brushed us off and glared:

— “Kids get fevers all the time. You were the same when you were little. I use fever-reducing leaves, some medicated oil, a few antipyretic pills, and it passes. Why run to the hospital in the middle of the night and make a scene? People will laugh and think the parents don’t know how to care for their own children!”

My wife clutched the babies, crying and pleading, but she stood firm. I was rattled too and didn’t dare go against her, because in our house the grandmother’s word was always “law.” We stayed up all night, fanning the girls, wiping their sweat, listening to their faint moans while our insides burned with worry.

By morning, the fever hadn’t gone down—it was worse. Seeing the girls turn pale and breathing fast, I threw caution aside, scooped them both up, and ran for the door just as my wife screamed for a doctor.

The whole household fell into chaos. The grandmother sat calmly in her room, muttering:

— “It’s just a little fever. No one dies from that—why all the ruckus…”

When the doctor arrived and saw the children’s condition, his face drained. He performed rescue breathing on the spot and urgently called for an ambulance to take them straight to the hospital. My legs went weak; my wife fainted at the doorway.

A few hours later, the doctor delivered a bolt from the blue:

— “Both girls have severe pneumonia, with a high fever that lasted many hours and signs of complications… If they had been brought in last night, they wouldn’t be in such critical condition.”

I was frozen. The grandmother still wouldn’t budge:

— “It’s not my fault. You two just don’t know how to raise children!”

The hospital room fell silent. I looked straight at the woman who gave birth to me, my throat tight with bitterness. Never in my life had I felt such pain and anger at the same time.

So it turned out that the grandmother we always believed loved her granddaughters so much was the very person who robbed my children of their chance to live—because of stubbornness and a blind, authoritarian pride.

That night, I decided: whatever happens, I will move my wife and children out, and I will never let this history repeat itself again.