Page 11 of Absolution (Infidelty #3)

Jackie

I only went out the door to get some air. That’s what I keep telling myself. I wasn’t planning to run. I wasn’t planning anything at all. One minute I was washing dishes, trying to stay upright, the next… I was outside. Walking.

I don’t know how I ended up at my parents’ house. I don’t remember the route I took. I wasn’t carrying a bag, not even my phone. My car keys were still in the dish by the door.

But when I saw the house, something in me exhaled. Like my body knew before my mind did, that I needed to be there.

The porch light was still broken. The wind had knocked the old chimes against the window like they used to. My parents’ bedroom light was off, of course. They weren’t here anymore.

I went around the side of the house, climbed up the old lattice like I used to when I’d sneak out as a teenager, and slipped in through the window of my childhood room.

Everything was the same.

Same blue curtains. Same twin bed with the sloped mattress. Same bookshelf with my old paperbacks, lined up like I never left.

I collapsed on the bed without pulling back the covers. I didn’t cry. I didn’t think. I just... stopped.

At some point, someone must’ve come in. Because when I came to again, hours later, I was covered in a thick quilt. My mother’s quilt. The one with the green-and-white patchwork. It smelled like her. Lavender and starch and home.

After that, the days blurred together.

I think Marianne and Cory took time off work. I don’t remember asking them to, but they were there. In the house. Somewhere. Sometimes I could hear them talking softly in the kitchen, or opening drawers, going through closets, boxing up parts of her life.

I didn’t help. Most of the time I stayed in bed.

When I had the energy, I dragged myself down the hall and sat on the living room couch. I didn’t speak much. Just sat there, wrapped in her quilt, watching the dust float in the sunlight.

Every now and then I’d FaceTime the kids using my siblings’ phones. Try to smile. Ask about their day. Tell them I missed them.

But mostly, I slept.

Not because I wasn’t thinking, but because I couldn’t anymore. Everything hurt. My body, my heart, my mind. Grief sat on my chest like a brick I couldn’t move.

I know Kyle was angry. I could hear it in his voice every time we spoke. I just didn’t have anything left to give.

Not to him. Not to anyone.

And maybe that makes me selfish. Maybe it makes me a bad mother. But I couldn’t pretend anymore. I needed to stop pretending.

Even if it meant the whole world kept spinning without me.

I’m sitting on the sofa, barely upright, when I hear Marianne call out from the attic.

“We found more boxes!”

I don’t move. Just pull the quilt tighter over my shoulders and watch through the open door as she and Cory come downstairs with their arms full.

“Most of this is old tax stuff,”

Cory mutters, dropping his load onto the coffee table.

“But this one-”

he lifts a smaller, less dusty box with faded writing on the sid.

“-this one says ‘Memories.’”

Marianne kneels beside it, carefully opening the flaps. The air smells like cedar and time. She peels back layers of yellowed tissue paper and gasps.

“Scrapbooks,”

she says, her voice cracking a little.

They’re thick, beautifully decorated, each one labelled in curling script. Jemma. Iris. Levi.

“She made one for each of them,”

Marianne whispers, brushing her fingers over the covers.

“She must’ve spent hours on this.”

She pulls one open, flipping to a spread with glittering stickers and careful handwriting.

“Oh, this is their third birthday party,”

she says, smiling gently.

“Remember how she rented that bouncy castle? Even though it rained?”

Cory chuckles, but it’s soft. Tender.

“Dad said she was gonna break a hip jumping on it with the kids.”

At the bottom of the box, reaching under a folded blanket and an old Valentine’s Day card, Marianne’s hand stills. She pulls out a small photo frame, wrapped in bubble wrap, like it’s more fragile than the rest. Unwrapping it carefully, her breath catches.

“Oh.”

Cory leans over her shoulder. His face changes too.

Neither of them says anything right away. Then, like they’ve silently agreed, they come and sit on either side of me.

Marianne places the frame in my lap.

I look down.

And the second I see it, I know.

It’s me, in a hospital gown, exhausted, hair around my face. My arms are wrapped around a tiny bundle. I’m kissing his forehead.

The frame is silver. Along the top, in delicate lettering, are two small etched wings.

Duke.

My baby boy.

My mom must’ve taken it. That quiet moment after they gave him to me. The only moment I had. The only memory I’ve let myself forget just to survive.

My fingers trace the curve of the frame, over the little angel wings, down to the soft edge of the picture. My breath hitches once.

“I let her down.”

“No.”

“You did not.”

Marianne and Cory say it at the same time.

“I did,”

I whisper.

“She was there for me, through everything. And the one moment, the one moment she needed me, I wasn’t there.”

Tears slide down my cheeks.

Marianne reaches for my hand.

“Mom knew.”

I shake my head.

“She asked me to come.”

“I know,”

Marianne says gently.

“Because you were her baby. Just like you had babies. But when she was in the hospital… she told me she was proud of you. For being strong. She said she knew how much you wanted to be there. For her. For Dad. But you couldn’t, because you were a mother. And she understood that.”

I choke on a breath.

“She did? She knew how much I loved her?”

“She did,”

Cory says quietly.

We sit there, the three of us, and cry. For everything we’ve lost.

For Robert and Mary.

For the childhood home now filled with silence.

For the kitchen that once smelled like pancakes and bacon on Sunday mornings.

For the porch where Dad used to sit with his coffee and the radio.

For all the things we can’t get back.

One second, we were showing up to our parents’ house unannounced, dropping in without calling first, just like always. And the next… we were watching them get buried.

Marianne was the one at the hospital with them, masked and gloved and pretending not to cry. Cory handled the logistics, both funerals, one after the other.

And me? I just... watched.

I nodded at the right times. But I didn’t grieve. We didn’t grieve together.

Until now.

Right here, in the living room where we once played tag and opened Christmas presents and fell asleep on Dad’s lap. Now, the three of us sit, grown, orphaned, broken, holding each other.

Time moves strangely after that.

It takes a while for me to pull myself together.

It’s March when the government finally announces the end of the lockdown. Not that most people were following it anymore. By then, the rules had blurred, softened into suggestion. Mask mandates were gone, stores were full, restaurants loud again.

But to me, it feels like something more. A sign. Like the world is whispering, you can go home now.

Not because I’m ready. I don’t know if I ever will be. But because there’s nothing left to run from. The silence here has done its job. It held me, stripped me down, let me fall apart in peace.

And now, even if I’m still broken, I think I’m ready to go back.

Not for appearances. For my family. For my husband, that held the fort while I grieved and for the three little people who don’t care what kind of mother I’m supposed to be. They just want me to come home.

So, I do.

Cory offers to drive me, and I say yes. I don’t have a car. I left without it. It’s probably still parked in front of our house, gathering dust. I didn’t bring my phone either. No wallet. No charger. No goodbye. Just walked out the door and kept going.

I wear the same baggy jeans I showed up in, and one of Cory’s soft, oversized shirts I’ve been living in for weeks. No makeup. I pack what little I have. The quilt. The photo frame. The scrapbooks with the kids’ names on them.

That’s all.

The ride is quiet. Cory doesn’t try to fill it. Just turns the radio low and glances at me sometimes like he’s checking for signs of life.

When he pulls into the driveway, I pause.

“You want me to come in?”

he asks gently.

I shake my head.

“I need to do this part alone.”

He nods, doesn’t argue. Just rests a hand on my shoulder for a beat before I step out.

The porch light is on. The curtains are drawn. There are shoes by the door, tiny sneakers, rain boots, one of Kyle’s work shoes.

Since I don’t have my keys, I knock softly.

I hear soft footsteps. Then a pause. When I glance toward the window, the curtain shifts, and a face appears in the window. When Iris spots me, her eyes go wide, then narrow slightly, like she’s making sure it’s not a trick.

“Mom?”

she calls through the glass.

“Guys, it’s Mom!”

There’s a scramble inside, thuds, hurried voices, someone arguing over who gets to open the door. Then the lock clicks, and the door swings open.

I barely have time to breathe before Iris throws her arms around my waist. She clings to me, solid and real and taller than I remember.

“Where were you?”

she asks, her voice muffled in my coat.

Jemma hovers in the doorway.

“Are you... are you back?”

she says, like she’s testing the words.

“I’m back,”

I manage to say.

Jemma doesn’t jump into my arms like she used to. She wraps them around my middle, her head pressing into my side.

Levi comes out last, slower than the girls. He doesn’t say anything, just stands in front of me for a moment, then hugs me tight, his cheek resting on my chest.

I lower myself to the ground, pulling all three of them in. Their limbs are longer now. Their weight more solid. Not so little anymore.

But still mine. Always mine.

That’s when I hear him.

Kyle.

He steps into view, half-shadowed, arms crossed. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Maybe he hasn’t.

“Hey,”

I say, voice barely above a whisper.

He nods saying nothing.

But before either of us can speak again, I hear footsteps behind him.

Marsha.

I shouldn't be surprised. The kids told me she was here. Said Grandma came to help, that she was cooking and making them say grace and tucking them in. I told them that was nice. That I was glad.

And I was.

Still, I didn’t expect Kyle to call her. He’s never been a momma’s boy. Half his life has been spent dodging her opinions. So, when I heard she was here, I was shocked.

But then again, maybe he needed backup. Maybe, now he’ll understand what I mean when I say, I need help.

“Well, hello,”

she says, stepping fully into view, arms crossed and perfectly composed.

“Look who finally came back.”

Her tone is light, almost amused. But her eyes are sharp, scanning me head to toe like she’s checking for signs of moral decay.

This is how it’s always been with Marsha.

So long as I played the part, kept the house tidy, looked presentable, raised the kids with a smile and kept my tone soft, she could be warm, even sweet. But the second I stepped out of line, put myself first.

She turned.

Cold. Condescending. Calculated.

Like she was always waiting to say I told you so.

“We were just starting dinner,”

she says now, looking past me toward the kitchen.

“I made that broccoli casserole the kids like. Levi’s barely eating again, poor thing.”

Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

I don’t answer, not having the energy to match her performance.

I press kisses to each of the kids’ foreheads, running my fingers through their hair, whispering.

“I’m home."

Then I stand.

Marsha doesn’t move. Just watches.

I walk past her, through the hallway I used to vacuum every Thursday, past the photo frames I used to dust, toward the kitchen that used to be mine.

I don’t know what happens next.

I don’t know if Kyle and I will fix this. I don’t know how long she’s staying. I don’t know what it’ll take to rebuild the trust I left behind.

But I know this:

I came back.

I’m still grieving. I’m still tired. But I’m here.

And maybe that’s the first step.

I don’t know what will happen now that I’m home. I really don’t.

I expected things to change, but I couldn’t have imagined just how much.