Page 51 of Absolution

I haven’t been with anyone since that concierge in Boston. Not since that incident with Clara, either, not that anything really happened. It was like my body knew I didn’t really want her.

I’ve stopped going to the gym. Started taking warmer showers, like that’s going to trick my body back into responding. But nothing helps.

It’s like my dick is dead.

And no, I haven’t gone to a doctor. Why would I?

It’s just stress. Work’s been insane, Jackie’s been off, the kids are nonstop. Probably adrenal fatigue or something. Happens to men in high-pressure fields all the time.

Yeah. That’s it. I’mfine. I'm gonna spend the day with my kids, what could be better?

I’m happy, I really am. But all I feel is tired. Still, I get up and get dressed before heading downstairs.

Jackie’s by the kitchen counter, zipping up a canvas bag like she’s the one going on the trip. She hands it to me and starts rattling off contents like a checklist: “Sunscreen, snacks, three water bottles with initials. Big one’s yours. Don’t forget to actually use the sunscreen. Oh, and grab the portable charger from your office.”

She kisses each of the kids on the head. Levi ducks away, pretending it’s gross. Iris rolls her eyes but smiles. Jemma says, “Ugh, Mom, stop,” and then hugs her anyway.

To me, Jackie just gives a bright, school-trip-chaperone wave. “You’ve got everything you need,” she says. “Have fun.”

She doesn’t kiss me.

I load the kids into the car. Adjust the mirror. Jackie’s still in the doorway, hand up, smiling like everything’s okay.

The drive to Zilker Park is loud in that uniquely middle-school way. Levi hums the wrong words to some YouTuber remix. Iris begs to use my phone’s Bluetooth because she “has the perfect playlist.” Jemma’s googling “weird animals that live in parks” and is convinced she saw a possum on the sidewalk.

By the time we arrive, it’s warm and crowded. Families everywhere. The air smells like grilled meat and someone’s very strong cologne.

The first half of the day is... actually kind of great.

We ride the Zilker Zephyrtwicebecause Iris insists the second time is better. We split overpriced ice cream sandwiches, and have a picnic under a tree with a surprisingly clean bench. Levi makes a squirrel voice that becomes an ongoing bit. Iris arranges rocks by colour like she’s building a fairy village. Jemma flops on the grass and declares herself the “official vibe curator.”

I take pictures. Real ones. Not just for stories or proof. I laugh. I even think, ‘This is working.’

But around noon, it shifts.

The sun cranks up and there’s barely any breeze. Jemma’s cheeks turn too pink. Levi starts coughing more than usual. Irisgets quiet, which is never a good sign, then snaps when her melted popsicle hits her shorts.

That’s when I realize I didn’t reapply sunscreen. I forgot the charger and I didn’t double-check the splash pad schedule. It’s closed. Maintenance. Of course.

My shirt sticks to my back. My phone’s at 3%. The kids are arguing now, over who gets to sit in the shady spot.

I try to stay cool, but my head’s pounding. I glance at the other families, moms with massive tote bags and organized snack bins, probably even a color-coded itinerary in there somewhere. The dads? They’re lounging on blankets, sipping iced coffee, pretending they don’t hear their kids scream.

It makes me want to snap.You conceived them too, pal.You don’t get to clock out because you did your part nine years ago.

But I don’t say it. I just clench my jaw and check Levi’s breathing again.

For the first time in a long time, I wonder, has Jackie always donethis much? And when did I stop seeing it?

But that’s for later.

Right now, Levi’s breathing is laboured. Not scary yet, but close enough.

So, I take a breath and keep my voice light. “Hey guys, change of plans. Let’s head home early. Grab ice cream on the way, surprise Mom.”

It’s subtle, but something in the wordhomemakes them stop bickering. Iris picks up the trash without being asked. Jemma gives Levi her water bottle.

No one complains.

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