“What on earth are you doing with my daughter?!”

The sharp voice cut through the kitchen like a blade. Margaret nearly jumped, her hands tightening around the tiny shoulders of the baby in the glass basin. She turned quickly, her dark eyes wide, only to see her employer—Richard Collins—standing frozen at the doorway. His face was pale, his brows knotted in horror, as if he had just witnessed a crime.

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The baby, little Emily, giggled at the splash of warm water, completely unaware of her father’s fear. Steam rose from the basin in delicate wisps, surrounding the scene in a haze that made Richard’s heart pound faster.

“Mr. Collins, please—” Margaret began, her voice trembling.

But he cut her off. “Are you insane? Putting my daughter into boiling water? She could be burned!” His voice thundered, echoing through the kitchen. He rushed forward, scooping Emily out of the basin, wrapping her quickly in a towel. The baby whined in protest, her tiny face turning red from the sudden movement.

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Margaret rose to her knees, her uniform slightly damp. “It’s not boiling, sir. The water is warm. She—she has a fever, and this helps—”

“Silence!” Richard barked. His usually composed demeanor was gone, replaced by raw panic and fury. He looked at his daughter’s flushed cheeks, convinced that Margaret had nearly harmed her. “You have no right to touch my child this way. Your job is to keep the house in order, not to play doctor!”

Margaret’s chest tightened. She wanted to explain, to tell him that she had seen this method used many times in her hometown, that lukewarm baths could reduce fever when medicine failed. She had noticed Emily burning up while Richard was away, had panicked herself but remembered what her grandmother once did.

But how could she argue with a father’s fear?

“I was only trying to help,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Richard glared at her, still holding his baby close. Emily’s little hand tugged at his collar, restless and feverish. “Help? By drowning her in my kitchen sink?” His voice cracked with disgust. “Pack your things, Margaret. You’re finished here.”

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The words hit her like a blow. Margaret lowered her eyes, her throat tightening. She could still hear Emily’s faint whimpers, see the child’s sweaty forehead, and she knew she had done the right thing—yet it didn’t matter now.

Richard stormed upstairs with Emily, slamming the kitchen door behind him. Margaret remained kneeling on the rug, tears threatening to spill. She had no one to defend her, no way to prove she wasn’t reckless.

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What neither of them knew was that, in just a few hours, the truth would come out—and Richard Collins would realize he had gravely misunderstood.

The next morning, Richard sat anxiously in the living room, Emily cradled against his chest. Her fever hadn’t broken. Despite the medicine he had given her during the night, her skin was still hot, her forehead damp with sweat. She had cried until she was too exhausted to make a sound.

Richard’s heart clenched with fear. He hated feeling helpless, hated not knowing what to do. When the doorbell finally rang, he all but sprinted to open it.

Dr. Samuel Greene, the family physician, entered quickly, medical bag in hand. He was a calm man in his fifties, with kind but serious eyes. “Where is she?” he asked.

Richard guided him to the sofa. The doctor placed a thermometer under Emily’s arm, checked her pulse, then frowned slightly. “She’s running a high fever. We need to cool her down.”

Richard nodded quickly. “I’ve been giving her the medicine you prescribed, but she’s not improving.”

Dr. Greene sighed. “Medication alone doesn’t always act quickly. Sometimes, a lukewarm bath helps bring the temperature down.”

Richard froze. His eyes darted to the floor, shame flickering across his face. “A… a bath?” he repeated slowly.

“Yes, just a basin of comfortably warm water,” Dr. Greene explained, already rummaging in his bag for fever reducers. “It’s one of the safest ways to help. Didn’t anyone try it last night?”

At that moment, the kitchen door creaked open. Margaret stood hesitantly at the threshold, her uniform neatly pressed despite the tear stains on her face from the night before. She had not yet packed her things—something inside her had told her to wait.

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Richard’s throat tightened. He remembered the scene from last night: steam rising, Emily giggling, his own fury.

Margaret’s voice was soft but steady. “I did, Doctor. I bathed her in warm water. I thought it might help.”

Dr. Greene looked at her, then back at Richard. “That was exactly the right thing to do. Good thinking, young lady. In fact, it probably kept the fever from climbing higher.”

Richard’s stomach twisted painfully. His eyes shifted toward Margaret, who stood with her hands clasped in front of her apron, still uncertain if she would be dismissed.

“You… you’re saying she was right?” Richard asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Absolutely,” Dr. Greene confirmed firmly. “You should be grateful someone in this house kept a clear head.”

Richard felt his chest tighten with guilt. He replayed the memory of shouting at Margaret, accusing her of recklessness, nearly throwing her out. And all the while, she had been the one protecting his daughter.

Emily whimpered softly in his arms, and Richard lowered his gaze, ashamed.