Page 76 of Absolution

At first, I considered nesting, the kind of setup where the kids stay in the house and Kyle and I would take turns living here. But when Jeremy, my lawyer, gently pointed out that it would only delay the real separation and that Kyle was unusually agreeable right now, I reconsidered.

“Finalize the house while he’s feeling generous,” he’d said with a small shrug. “Before the guilt fades or his parents get involved.”

He’s right. I don’t want the added weight of his mother’s judgment or his father’s not-so-silent jabs complicating what’s already unbearable. And I don’t want to feel like I have to fight for what’s mine. Not again.

The kids don’t come out of their rooms much. I leave snacks and water outside their doors, like they’re sick, or sheltering in place. It’s the only way I can make sure they don’t starve.

The next morning, I find them all curled up in Levi’s room. Jemma and Iris flanking their brother, tangled in blankets, sharing one pillow between them. Levi’s arm is draped over Iris’s shoulder, and Jemma’s toes peek out from under his blanket. It’s quiet. Peaceful, almost. Like they built their own little life raft in the wreckage.

The sight makes me feel like a monster. Like the villain in a story I never wanted to write. I’m breaking their family apart. But I cannot stay. Not for my sanity. Not for what little self I have left.

Saturday passes the same way. Kyle packs. The kids stay holed up in their rooms, only emerging for food, water, and the occasional glimpse of each other. They don’t speak much. They don’t ask questions. But I see it in their eyes, they’re waiting for this to be over.

On Sunday, I offer to help Kyle move into the apartment.

He looks surprised when I say it, then quietly grateful. He’d asked if I wanted to help set up the kids’ rooms. Said he didn’t want to mess it up. I said they’re old enough to do it themselves, and they are. But I still want to go. To see where they’ll be sleeping. To see what “home” will look like when I’m not in it.

The apartment is a second-floor walk-up in a quiet complex with shaded trees and a row of identical beige buildings. The kind of place that’s nice enough, clean enough, but forgettable. Functional. Like a hotel you’d stay in long-term, not a home you decorate for the holidays.

Inside, it smells like fresh paint and dust. The floors are laminate wood, a little too shiny. The walls are a generic off-white. Thekitchen is small, but open. The living room has one window and no curtains yet. Boxes are stacked everywhere, most of them still taped shut.

The kids’ rooms are down a short hallway. Three small bedrooms. Levi gets the one, next to the master and Kyle’s already put the bedframe together, though the mattress still leans against the wall. Jemma and Iris will have their own rooms across the hall from the master. The closets are small but functional, and the windows face the parking lot. It’s not much. But it’s enough.

I help assemble a nightstand, then a set of shelves. Kyle unboxes a few picture frames, prints of the kids at the beach, their drawings from school. Nothing of me. Nothing of just us. A few family pics.

We don’t talk much, but it’s not tense. It’s oddly… peaceful. We’re two people rearranging the fallout. Two people trying to give their kids something solid in the middle of the collapse.

I finish folding a small blanket for Iris’s bed and step back, brushing my hands on my jeans. Kyle’s standing by the doorway of Levi’s room, looking at it like he’s not really seeing it.

Then, softly: “Can we try?”

I freeze.

“I know you want the divorce,” he says, voice low, shaky, “and I’ve accepted it. I’ve tried to respect it. But Jackie… please. I don’t want to give up. Can we try again? Be a family again. Just… just give me one chance.”

I look down, eyes burning. “Is that why you’ve been so agreeable?” I ask. “Why you signed every paper without a fight? You thought if you played nice I’d change my mind?”

His mouth opens, but no sound comes.

“Do you even understand what you did?” I ask, stepping closer. “I could’ve forgiven you for everything else. The lying. The cheating. All of it.” My throat tightens. My hands are shaking. “But Duke?”

His face crumples.

“You killed my child,” I whisper. “And then you let me blame myself. For everything. For not calling the ambulance sooner. For not being more careful. For not holding him longer.” I choke out a breath. “I lived with that. And you let me.”

“I didn’t know,” he says, voice cracking. “Jackie, I swear to God, I had no idea.”

“Of course you didn’t,” I spit. “You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know. You pretended he didn’t exist. You buried him before I even had a chance to grieve him.”

He steps forward like he might reach for me, but I step back.

“I’m in therapy,” he says. “I’m trying. Please, Jackie… I’m trying.”

I shake my head slowly. “I don’t trust you,” I say. “Do you get that? I don’t trust you with my heart. Or my life. Or the truth. I don’t even trust that what you’re feeling right now isn’t just guilt disguised as change.”

He looks like I slapped him.

“I can’t come back from that,” I say, more quietly now. “And neither can we.”

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