The Scorching Sun, the Cold Heart

Outside the window, the sun blazed like a red-hot branding iron. The forecast showed 46 degrees; even the air was thick with burning heat. I sat on the living room sofa, my hand gently resting on my rounded belly, where my three-month-old baby was growing. The air conditioner was set to 26 degrees, the temperature recommended by the doctor—neither too cold to disturb the fetus nor too warm to alleviate the summer heat. Suddenly, the sound of the door lock turning broke the silence. I assumed it was my husband, Anthony Carr, returning from work, but when I looked up, I saw a familiar figure following him—his childhood sweetheart, Veronica Larsen. Veronica held a white poodle in her arms and walked straight to the center of the living room, her brows furrowed. "Christina Sue, why is your air conditioner set so high?" Her voice carried an accusing tone, as if it were only right to question, "My Snowball has asthma; this heat will trigger her condition. Turn it down to 16 degrees." I was momentarily stunned, instinctively touching my belly, and whispered, "No, Veronica, I'm pregnant. Sixteen degrees is too cold. The doctor said it must not go below 24 degrees, or it could harm the baby." As soon as I finished speaking, Anthony, who had been silent until then, suddenly darkened his expression, his tone laden with displeasure: "Christina Sue, what's wrong with you?" "Veronica specifically came to visit, and Snowball isn't well. What's wrong with adjusting the temperature? Do you have to be so dramatic?" I looked at Anthony Carr in disbelief, my heart twisting as if gripped by an invisible hand. This is his child, after all. How could he put someone else's dog above the safety of our unborn baby? "Anthony Carr, this isn't being dramatic; the child really can't tolerate it." I tried to reason with him, my voice tinged with hurt. "Twenty-six degrees is already quite comfortable. If Snowball feels hot, you can place him somewhere ventilated or turn on a small fan for him." Veronica Larsen sneered, sitting on the sofa with the dog in her arms, looking at me provocatively: "Christina Sue, you just don't want Snowball to be comfortable, do you?" "Anthony, look at her—acting so domineering just because she's pregnant, she won't even tolerate my dog." Anthony Carr's expression grew darker. He walked over to the air conditioner and reached out to adjust the temperature. I quickly stood up and blocked his hand. "Anthony, don't adjust it! Please, think about our child." He forcefully shook off my hand. I lost my balance and staggered backward, but luckily I grabbed the sofa's armrest and didn't fall. "Christina Sue!" Anthony's voice rose sharply, laden with accusation. "Are you done making a scene? Quarreling with me over such a trivial matter, and sulking at Veronica—this isn't like you anymore!" I met his unfamiliar gaze, my heart turning ice-cold. It turned out that, in his mind, the health of me and the child was less important than Veronica Larsen's dog. Veronica, stirring the fire beside us, said, "Anthony, let it go. Maybe Christina just doesn't like me and Snowball. We'd better leave, so we don't upset her here." She was about to rise, but Anthony quickly grabbed her and glared at me: "Christina Sue, turn the air conditioner to 16 degrees immediately, or go back to your room by yourself!" I bit my lip, tears welling up in my eyes.