Page 73 of Absolution

I stay seated. Empty. Numb.

“What about the kids?” I ask, voice barely audible.

“The kids are why I’m still here,” she says. “They’re the only reason I didn’t walk out when I found out.”

And somehow, that’s worse. Because she’s not stayingfor me. She’s stayingdespite me.

“I used to imagine us old,” she says quietly. “You in your reading chair. Me yelling at you to wear your hearing aids. The kids grown, maybe with babies of their own.”

She looks away, eyes glinting.

“I never imagined this.”

I feel something tear inside me.

“I never meant to break us,” I say. “I didn’t plan any of it. I just... stopped recognizing myself, Jackie. Somewhere along the line, I lost who I was.”

She gives a tired smile. “You didn’t lose yourself, Kyle. You just showed me who you were when no one was watching.”

I open my mouth, but she holds up her hand.

“I’m not interested in apologies anymore. You’ve said them all. And I believed them. Every time.” Her voice breaks. “When you snapped at me and blamed it on work. When you told me you were working while abandoning me at my weakest. When you promised in sickness and in health, but were loyal for neither.”

Each one hits like a blow.

“I believed you, Kyle. Even when I didn’t want to.”

I rub my chest like I’m trying to press the pain down.

“I didn’t think I could survive losing our son,” she says quietly. “But I did. I didn’t think I could go on without my mom. But I did that too.”

She stands, steady now, like the decision is holding her upright.

“You don’t get to tell me you’ve changed,” she says. “Not when every change you made was in secret.”

Her eyes lock on mine. There’s no fury left, just clarity.

“You want to do the right thing, Kyle?” she asks. “Then don’t fight me on this.”

A sob crawls up my throat. I crush it down with everything I have.

She steps forward.

“Jackie,” I manage, my voice hoarse. “I still love you.”

She stands there for a beat. Then another.

“I know,” she says.

Then, slowly, she kneels down in front of me, just like I did in front of her. “I don’t want some brutal, drawn-out divorce,” she says, gentler now. “We married in love. I want us to part as parents. As people who still care enough not to destroy everything.”

She reaches out, her fingers brushing against mine, warm, trembling.

“Please,” she whispers. “If I ever meant anything to you… if you ever loved me… please, let me go.”

I want to speak. To beg. To throw myself at her feet and promise everything. But I know, deep down, it’s too late. I’ve told too many lies, caused too much pain. Marriage counselling cannot fix the fact that I caused the death of our son.

I’ve already dug my grave, time to lay in it.

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