Page 17 of Absolution

At night, when Kyle sleeps in the corner chair, snoring lightly, I lay awake and try to will Levi into healing. I whisper to him through the walls. I pray to every God I’ve ever heard of.

I thank the universe for Jemma and Iris. For the way they blink when I hover over them. For the way their tiny hands already reach out like they know me. And I hold onto that.

Because in this place, it’s so easy to drown.

But I’ve got three babies who need me.

And a husband I still love, even when it hurts to look at him.

So, I’ll keep fighting. Keep trying. Keep showing up, even on the days it feels like I have nothing left to give.

Because I’ve already lost one child.

I won’t lose another.

The lights are off except for the soft glow from under the door. I can’t sleep. I haven’t in days. The pain meds dull the ache, but nothing touches the grief.

I hear a door click open, followed by soft footsteps. The sofa across the room dips slightly. Kyle. He smells like the cheap lavender hand soap from the visitor bathroom.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

He hasn’t been able to sit still since he first got here. Kyle’s been going from my room to the NICU to home and back. He’s picking up clothes, talking to nurses, to the insurance people, basically keeping everything in check.

My father-in-law didn’t show up for any of this, but apparently, he pulled some strings to get us this suite. Private shower. A sofa that turns into a bed. A view of the parking garage. Luxury.

This isn’t the first night we’re staying in here. It’s like Kyle thinks sleeping on an uncomfortable chair instead of letting the nurse turn the sofa into a bed will atone for his sins.

I stay silent, turning my face toward the wall. He takes it like he has for the past few days. But tonight, something in me wonders.

“Why?” I whisper. My voice is hoarse. “Why didn’t you come home that night?” He doesn’t respond right away. He knows exactly what night I mean. “Don’t say you had a case,” I add. “You’re lying. I know.”

A long breath. I hear him shift, maybe leaning forward, maybe trying to come up with something better. Then finally: “I was at a bar,” he says. “And then… I went back to the office and passed out.”

My eyes sting. I keep my face turned away. My voice cracks when I ask, “Were you alone?”

“Jesus,” he says, voice low and pained. “Yes.”

I don’t answer. I just stare at the wall, like I’ll find peace there.

“I was just... scared, Jackie,” he continues, quieter. “All that stuff about you and the babies being in danger, it got in my head. I didn’t know how to handle it. So, I shut down.”

I let out a bitter laugh. It tastes like acid. “Must’ve been nice. Getting to shut down.”

“I know what I did was horrible,” he says after a beat. “But have you seen it from my side? I watched you fade away. My wife, stuck in bed, hurting, scared. And I couldn’t fix it. I didn’t know how.”

I finally turn to look at him. His silhouette is blurred, just a dark shape against the city lights outside the window.

“The one night I turned off my phone…” he says, voice breaking, “you needed me. And our kids… Duke…”

He trails off.

“I made one mistake,” he whispers. His words feel like a cop-out. But his voice… it’s not cold. It’s cracked open. Bare.

“I’m not perfect either,” I say quietly. “But you pulled away from me, Kyle. You left me to carry this alone.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he says instantly. “After that doctor said all the risks, and you started second-guessing… I felt like maybe I forced you into this. Four babies. All at once. It felt like every time you told me something was wrong; you were blaming me. And maybe… maybe it was because I was already blaming myself.”

I don’t speak.

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