Page 27 of Absolution

“So?” he repeats, incredulous. “So, I’m trying towork,Jackie. I’m trying to hold onto a job that pays foreverythingaround here, and you can’t even keep the kids out of my office?”

I stare at him, then gesture at the sink. “I’m doing the dishes.”

“Dishes can wait,” he says, voice rising. “You’re supposed to bewatching the kids.That’s your job. And clearly, you can’t even do that.”

“Okay,” I whisper. Not to him. To the sink. To the silence growing behind my ribs.

He waits for more. For a fight. For me to rise to his anger. But there’s nothing in me today. Nothing but a dull hum in my skull and a chest full of static.

He curses under his breath, turns, walks away. A second later, the slam of his office door makes the cabinet beside me rattle.

I just stand there.

Hand still in the water. Staring at a sponge I haven’t moved in minutes. My spine aches from standing. My eyes sting, but I don’t cry. Haven’t cried in days. I think I ran out. Or maybe I’m just too tired.

Tired of pretending I’m okay. Tired of being the strong one. Tired of being the default parent, the nurse, the teacher, the grief container, the housekeeper, the one who absorbs every silence, every slammed door.

I look at the sponge in my hand like it might float me somewhere better. Then I drop it, slowly, and lean on the edge of the sink, my arms trembling from the weight of everything I’m still carrying.

I don’t even know how long I stay like that. Still. Quiet.

Like if I move, I’ll shatter.

I feel like I already have.

Just as I get my breathing under control, I hear the thundering sound of little feet down the hallway.

“Mommy!” Jemma shouts, breathless, barrelling into the kitchen with Iris right behind her. They’re both in princessdresses again, sticky faces, glitter in their hair, plastic heels clacking wildly on the tile.

I barely have time to register them before Levi dashes in from the other side, his arms pumping, breath short but even. My heart jumps like it always does when he runs. I’m still not used to it, the way his little legs don’t falter, the way he doesn’t gasp or clutch his chest after ten steps.

He skids to a stop in front of the counter, grabs his dinosaur water bottle, then climbs up onto the stool by the fridge where his med dispenser sits. I freeze, watching.

He pops open the blue-lidded compartment, the one labelled TUESDAY- 9:00 A.M. and tips the contents into his mouth. Two pink pills, one round white one. He chugs water, makes a face, then wipes his mouth on his sleeve and slides down again.

“I took them!” he says proudly, holding up his arm to show me his watch. “It buzzed and Iremembered.”

My throat tightens. I nod. “Good job, baby.”

I should feel triumphant. This was the goal. I spent weeks building that routine with him, sitting side by side, explaining how his new heart and lungs work, how these meds keep them strong. I even color-coded his watch, helped him understand the numbers, explained the importance of consistency. At seven years old, Levi’s already had more hospital nights than most adults.

And now… he’s okay.

He’s keeping up with his sisters. He’s eating. Laughing. Running.

He’s okay.

But I don’t feel the relief I thought I would.

I just feel… numb.

Like the battle is over, and somehow, I’m still holding my sword.

“Mama!” Jemma tugs on my shirt. “Can we paint now? Please please please?”

“I wanna do the glitter slime,” Iris adds, hopping.

“Can we have a snack first?” Levi yells, opening the pantry, already dragging out a box of crackers.

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