Page 5 of Absolution

When I got the offer in Texas, my dad was the one who told me to take it. “Start fresh,” he said. “Out there, you can buildsomething real.” What he meant was: get out while you’re still sharp. Before someone slows you down.

I listened, took the job without blinking. I thought Texas would be all about working, long hours, climbing fast, nothing else. The place had a reputation, sure: red meat, loud voices, pickup trucks and politics. None of that bothered me. What mattered was the pace, the grind, the distance.

Before I even set foot in Austin, I met Jackie.

She wasn’t just sweet, she was sharp. Decisive. Certain. She lit up a room without trying and made people feel like they mattered. I didn’t even realize I was lonely until she looked at me like I wasn’t.

One year ago, I met her.

One month ago, I married her.

And today, I’m standing in our tiny kitchen waiting for her to get home. She said she had news. I could hear the quiver in her voice when she said it, so I think I know.

We haven’t been using protection. Figured if it happened, it happened. Let nature decide.

I’ve never felt ready for anything in my life. Not college. Not law school. But this? I think I’m ready.

Jackie’s twenty-one. I’m twenty-eight. That gap felt big when we met, but somehow, she’s the one who keeps me grounded. She’s calm when I’m sharp. Soft where I’m stone. Sometimes I think she’s the older one, not me.

Before we got married, my father insisted on a prenup. I said no. Jackie would never leave me. But he said, "Trust me," and the way he said it, like he had experience, like he’d lived it, made melisten. I let him approach Jackie. Let her know it was his idea, not mine. Let him guilt her into signing. I told myself it was to protect both of us, not just me. And anyway, we’ll never use it.

I hear the keys in the door just as I’m drying the last plate.

Jackie’s never quiet when she walks in, usually she starts telling me about her day at the door, but not today. Today all I hear is the sound of her boots being kicked off and her bag dropping to the floor. She flops down on the couch like she’s been holding herself together all day and finally let go.

I wipe my hands on the dish towel, toss it on the counter, and walk into the living room.

She’s dropped on the couch like someone pulled the plug on her. Legs folded, elbows on her knees. Her coat’s half on, half off. Bag on the floor. Boots still by the door, soaked from the slush.

I sit down next to her. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. She turns, eyes wide. Flushed. Breathing hard like she ran here, even though we both know she didn’t.

“I’m pregnant,” she says.

Just like that. No warning. No lead-in. No soft landing. My heart thuds once, hard. “That’s great,” I say, already meaning it, already thinking about what comes next. But my joy is shadowed by her behaviour, by the look in her eyes. The Jackie I know already named our kids, but she’s not smiling. Something’s off. Her mouth presses into a line, like she’s trying to hold back too many thoughts at once.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “I thought you wanted-”

She puts a hand on my arm. It’s not that. Her touch says slow down.

“I kinda thought I was pregnant,” she says, voice low. “It’s just… I’m… it’s...”

She stops. Takes a few breaths. Reaches into her bag and pulls something out. Handing it to me, she stays quiet. Ultrasound photo. Two little shapes. Blurry, but there. Close together, like they’re holding hands.

“The doctor said I’m about four weeks,” she says. “They couldn’t hear the heartbeat yet. But…”

She taps the photo. “They think it’s twins.”

I stare. “Oh god,” I say. Not even thinking. Just instinct.

She nods. “Yeah. I was expecting one. I could handle one. But two. I don’t know how we’re gonna handle two.” She looks at me like she’s bracing for panic. For doubt. For me to start pacing or problem-solving or going quiet the way I do when I’m overloaded.

But I just sit there, holding the photo. Two little shapes. Two tiny blobs that somehow feel bigger than anything I’ve ever dealt with in court or life.

And then it hits me, not fear. Not doubt.

Joy. Real, full-body joy.

I look up at her, and before I can even think, I’m on my feet.

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