Page 52 of Absolution

We pile into the car. I check the mirror again. And for once, they’re all quiet.

Not sulking. Just... tired. Like me.

I purposely don’t text Jackie we’re coming back. I want to see what was more important than a full day out with the family. I picture her curled up on the sofa with a book or asleep in bed, maybe even calling her sister over for girl talk or whatever it is she does when she has time to herself.

Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I just hung out with her. Not as parents. Not as roommates. Just us.

As a peace offering, I pick up her favourite, vanilla and the squeeze-bottle chocolate syrup. She likes pouring her own amount depending on her mood. The control freak in her calls itpersonalized dessert therapy.

We pull into the driveway, and I turn around. “Alright, team. Quiet voices. Let’s surprise her.”

They roll their eyes but tiptoe behind me, as I unlock the door.

I’m the one who’s surprised.

The living room is covered in laundry,pilesof it. Neat stacks of every kind, towels, kids' clothes, pyjamas, mismatched socks, sheets. At the centre of it all is Jackie, cross-legged, focused, folding a huge sheet like it’s a piece of origami.

She jumps when she sees us. “Oh my God. You’re home?”

Levi immediately runs over, coughing. “I need my nebulizer.”

Without missing a beat, she grabs the machine from the hallway cabinet and sets it up on autopilot. Handing me the mask, she kneels beside him, rubbing Levi’s back as it starts up.

“What... why are you doing this today?” I ask, helping Levi sit on the sofa with the mask on. “Laundry?Now?”

She gives me a look, like I’ve grown a second head. “I do this every Sunday.”

I blink. “What?”

“Yeah,” she says, turning back to folding like it’s obvious. “It’s laundry day. It always has been.”

I look around again, really looking this time. Five people’s worth of clothes. Towels. Sheets. I must’ve thought they folded themselves.

“How can five people have this many clothes?”

Jackie just shrugs. “Ask your daughter who changes outfits three times a day.”

I don’t say it out loud, but I’m stunned. My Sundays are usually for sleeping in, maybe brunch with a client, or tossing a ball around with the kids. I don’t think I’ve done laundry in years.

I mean, Iknewshe washed the clothes, but I never really thought about the sheets. Or the curtains.You wash curtains?Why not just send them out?

And yet, somehow, all of it, every sock, every towel, every weirdly complicated duvet cover has been cleaned, folded, ironed, and put away. Week after week. Without me even noticing.

Setting the grocery bag in the freezer, I pick up a basket of neatly folded boy clothes. Levi’s, I guess.

“I’ll put these away,” I say quietly.

She glances at me, maybe surprised, but says nothing.

I take Levi’s pile to his room, load the drawers the best I can. Then I come back and grab Iris’s and Jemma’s, careful not to mix them. Jackie’s right, that would start a war. It’s bad enough they have to share a room.

Then hers. Then mine. By the time I’m done, the kids are collapsed on the couch. We watch a movie together, some horror movie. I sit between Jemma and Levi, letting them lean against me.

Afterward, we have an early dinner, takeout from my favourite Italian place, the one downtown with the wood-fired everything. Jackie must’ve picked it up earlier because it’s all there: the smoky lasagna I love, garlic knots that should be illegal, and that ridiculous chocolate torte I always order even though I say I won’t.

The kids singHappy Birthdayoff-key but loud, Levi holding the last note way too long until we all burst out laughing. Iris presents the cake like she baked it herself, and Jemma makes me wear a paper crown from some leftover party stash. I play along because... honestly? It feels good. Familiar.

We eat at the table like a real family. No phones, no yelling. Just chewing, giggling, and seconds. Jackie even lets me have the corner piece of lasagna, the one with all the crispy cheese.