Page 38 of Absolution

Chapter Thirteen

Jackie ~April, 2024

The city is so beautiful. I didn’t expect that. Boston is bright and bricked, charming in a way that feels both fresh and rooted in history. It’s my first time here, and even with the early summer heat and the endless rush of people, something about it feels peaceful.

Kyle has been spending a lot of time away from home lately. Ever since his dad recovered, he started working with him again, at Greyson & Associates, but he never actually quit his job back in Austin. I asked him once if that was even allowed, if it didn’t violate a non-compete or something, and he just looked at me like I was slow and said, “No.” No explanation, no patience, just that tone, the one that says I should know better.

I think his dad’s firm might be buying out his old one, but every time I bring it up, Kyle brushes me off with, “It’s complicated, you wouldn’t understand.”

Maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe I could have if I’d finished college like I planned before everything changed. Before the pregnancy. Before the quads. Before the NICU, the monitors, the surgeries, the sleepless nights. Before I learned to keep a household from falling apart while praying our son didn’t.

When would I have finished school, exactly? Between feeding tubes and heart medications? Between making sure Jemma and Iris didn’t feel forgotten in the chaos? I did what I had to do, and I’m not ashamed of that. I’m proud of it.

Every time I asked Kyle about hiring help, he’d tell me, “We’ll figure it out,” and then leave for an “emergency.” At first, I believed him. Then I just stopped asking.

"When we first met, Kyle told me he didn’t want a stay-at-home wife like his mom. He said he wanted someone driven, ambitious, someone with her own thing. But that was before three kids and zero support. Before late-night feedings and colic and postpartum depression no one talked about.

Kyle was there at first, he tried. But he was an associate back then, bottom of the barrel, terrified of messing up. We couldn’t afford for him to lose his job. So I endured. Pushed through the loneliness, the cracked nipples, the guilt of resenting babies I loved more than anything. I kept the house running, kept myself small, so he wouldn’t have to carry both loads. Because I thought that’s what partners did. And I still believe that. I just didn’t realize how far I’d disappear in the process.

Now that Levi’s doing better, and the kids are nearly eleven, they don’t need me as much. I’ve been thinking about going back to school. Not for him. Not for Kyle. For me. I don’t need Kyle to pay for it either. My parents left both of my siblings; and me enough to make something of ourselves. It’s not some grand inheritance, but it’s enough to cover college and childcarefor a while. It took a long time for the insurance to pay out and we decided to wait for the market to recover before selling the house, which ended up being years.

Kyle and I have had this distance between us for a long time now. And every time I try to name it, he tells me it’s in my head. That we’re fine. That I’m overthinking again. But I know the man I married. Or at least I used to.

This version of him, the one who thinks I should stay quiet and be grateful for scraps, I don’t know him. I don’t understand where he came from. It’s like my sweet, supportive husband disappeared in the night and in his place, left this cold, unfeeling man. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still the same with the kids, it’s just me he can’t stand anymore.

We need to talk. Really talk. And not in a house full of interruptions or whispered tension. I thought maybe, when he called his mom for help when I was gone, when he couldn’t manage the kids alone, he’d understand where I was coming from. I thought it would shift something. Build some empathy.

If anything, his help with childcare disappeared completely after that. Like taking care of the kids alone, for once gave him a permanent get-out-of-parenting-free card.

So, here we are. Boston.

I came to be with him. To talk. To maybe remember what beinguseven feels like.

I want us to be happy again. Like we were before the pandemic. Before the deaths, and the funerals and the breakdowns. We survived the death of a child; we got through nearly losing another. We’ve been through hell and somehow clawed our way back. If we can survive all that, surely we can survive this too.

At the hotel, I make my way to the elevators. I already called. Yes, it was sneaky. I pretended to be his secretary, told the front desk I needed to confirm his room number to have some documents delivered. They gave it to me so easily, I felt guilty. But not enough to stop.

Now I’m in the elevator, checking my reflection in the mirrored walls, touching up mascara that’s already a little smudged from the plane ride. My bag sits at my feet, heavy with all the things I’ve been too scared to say.

I hope he’s not too busy. I hope I’m not interrupting something important.

But come hell or high water, I need to know where we stand. Not for his sake. Not even just for the kids.

For me. For us. For whatever’s left to fight for.

Nervously smoothing my lipstick, I stand in front of his hotel room door. I wonder what his reaction will be. Will he be surprised? Happy? I haven’t told him I’m here. Maybe I should’ve.

I raise my hand to knock but pause. Curiosity wins. I try the handle. Kyle always forgets to lock the door at home and apparently, he forgets in Boston too. For someone raised in New York, he’s surprisingly careless about security. Then again, he had people for that.

Stepping in, I take a breath. The room is elegant, sleek. A food cart sits beside a small sofa. I drop my bag by the door and glance toward the bathroom. It's dark. Maybe he’s out. Maybe I should just wait.

I move toward the bed and step on something soft. There are clothes scattered across the floor. At first, I think they might beKyle’s, until I pick one up and turn it, slowly. Way too small to be his.

Scanning the room, I see heels by the dresser, a bra slung over the lamp.

Oh God.

Panic rises in my chest. I must be in the wrong room. Please, let this be the wrong room.

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