Page 15 of Absolution (Infidelty #3)

Jackie June, 2024

Hi, my name is Jackie,”

I say to the circle I’m sitting in.

“Some of you already know this, but… I recently found out my husband was cheating on me.”

There’s a quiet shift in the room. A few people glance up. Most don’t.

“I went through all the phases; self-blaming, sadness, anger. Normally when I’m angry, I show it. I yell, I slam doors. But this time... I didn’t. I haven’t. Because I can’t leave. Not yet.”

My voice gets smaller, but I keep going.

“My husband... he wouldn’t take it well. And I have to stay, for the kids. So, every time he looks at me, I pretend I don’t know. Every time he speaks to me, I force myself to answer.”

There’s a pause. I let out a small, bitter laugh.

“If anyone has any advice on how to stop feeling like I want to bash his head in with a frying pan, please share.”

That earns a few chuckles and murmurs. Trish, the woman in charge of the group, a silver-haired counsellor with kind but no-bullshit eyes, clears her throat.

“Would anyone else like to share?”

A few people go after me. Their stories blur together, grief, betrayal, survival. None of them are exactly like mine. But Dan's hits hard. He found out his five-year-old son isn’t biologically his. Says he still loves him, that he is his son, but his wife’s betrayal gutted him. He doesn’t know if he can forgive her.

When the meeting ends, chairs scrape, coffee cups are gathered, goodbyes exchanged. I start to follow the group out when I hear Trish’s voice behind me.

“Hey, you got time for a coffee?”

I pause, then nod. “Sure.”

We end up at the café next door, sitting in a booth with warm mugs between us. The place smells like burnt espresso and lemon cleaner. My hands curl around the cup even though I’m not cold.

Trish watches me for a second.

“I don’t usually do this. But... are you okay?”

I laugh under my breath.

“Some days I want to scream. And the others... I just feel hopeless.”

She nods slowly.

“I was in your boat once.”

I blink. “What?”

She leans back.

“Found out the father of my kids had a querida… a mistress.”

“Jesus,”

I whisper.

“Oh, it gets better. Week after that, I found out I had cancer.”

I stare at her. “Jesus.”

She gives a dry smirk.

“Turned out okay in the end. But let’s talk about you.”

I sip the coffee, still too hot.

“Most of what I said in the group, that’s the big stuff. I’m trying to be smart about this. I can’t go to a lawyer; my husband is one. He’d find out, and that wouldn’t go well.”

Her eyes narrow slightly.

“Is he dangerous?”

“Not like that.”

I shake my head.

“But... Kyle loves our kids. That’s one thing I know. If he thinks I’m planning to leave and take them with me, he’ll make sure I’m the one who never sees them again.”

She sighs.

“Kids need both parents.”

“I know,”

I say quietly.

“I’d never take them from him. But the way he’s been lately...”

I trail off, looking past her to the window. The man I married, he was kind, loving. The years before COVID, especially after Levi was diagnosed... they were hard, but we were solid. We never let go of each other. Even when our son was in the hospital for weeks, we held hands through it all.

But now? Now it feels like he just stopped loving me. Like he made a decision to pull away and never looked back.

“And even though I know what he did,”

I murmur.

“and how I found out... I think I still love him.”

Trish sighs.

“We’re different, you know. Women. We don’t just stop loving someone because they’re bad for us.”

I stare into the mug. “Yeah.”

“So, what’s your plan?”

I force a smile.

“Well... I can’t talk to a lawyer, but I have amazing siblings. Cory and Marianne. They helped me research some things. Apparently, according to google Texas is a no-fault divorce state. So, it doesn’t matter that he cheated.”

Trish winces. “Oof.”

“Yeah. And we have a prenup.”

I shrug.

“Naive me signed it. But I did read it. In case of divorce, under any circumstance, we each leave with what we came in. No alimony. No division of property.”

“And the kids?”

I swallow.

“I had a breakdown. I left to stay with my siblings… after my mom died. I think that’s when he started cheating. But he can use that against me, say I’m unstable. Add in the fact that I don’t have a job or any real prospects... I’m screwed.”

She doesn’t try to reassure me. I’m glad.

“For now,”

I say.

“I’ve started taking college classes again. It’s a long road. I just…”

Looking up, I swallow back my tears.

Sniffling, I add.

“Sorry for dumping all this on you.”

Trish leans back; hand still wrapped around her coffee cup.

“It’s not dumping. You needed to say it.”

I nod.

“It’s just hard. Having to swallow my words. Every day. In front of him.”

There’s a quiet beat between us. Then she says, gently.

“Did you ever get help? After your breakdown?”

The question catches me off guard. My fingers tighten around the rim of the mug.

“My siblings tried,”

I say, voice low.

“But COVID restrictions made everything hard. Appointments kept getting pushed, and eventually… I just powered through.”

Trish’s face doesn’t change, but something in her posture sharpens.

She takes a deep breath.

“I know it’s none of my business. But courts won’t believe in ‘powering through.’ Not when it comes to custody. If you’re serious about leaving and I’m not pushing you, but if you are, you need to start showing that you’re capable, and that he’s the problem.”

I blink.

“But they won’t care that he cheated.”

“Texas has two types,”

she says.

“No-fault and at-fault. You can pick what you want. But honestly, if there’s a prenup, fault might not even matter. I’m not totally sure how that plays out with the money stuff.”

She pauses, tilting her head.

“But custody? That’s a different story. Judges care about patterns, who’s consistent, who shows up. If he’s putting his personal life first, if he’s not around for the kids? That matters. It’s your job to keep records. Texts, missed events, anything that shows you’re the one holding things together.”

I sit back, heart knocking hard against my ribs.

“So… what? I just start taking notes?”

“Better than that,”

she says.

“Start documenting. While you still have access. Go back, look through old messages, emails, anything with dates. Find proof. Find patterns. If he missed school events, doctor appointments, if there’s a paper trail that shows he’s checked out... collect it. Quietly. Build your case now, not after you leave.”

I nod slowly, absorbing it all.

Trish’s voice softens.

“You don’t have to fight dirty. But you do need to fight smart.”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“You just did,” she says.

She takes a sip of her coffee, then sets it down carefully.

“I’ve seen a lot of women, and men, go through this. And I’ll tell you, the ones who come out on top? They don’t let their emotions drive the train. Doesn’t mean you don’t feel them. But when it comes to planning, to protecting yourself and your kids, you have to think like a lawyer, not a heartbroken wife.”

I look down, blinking fast.

She nods toward me.

“You’ve got time. Just use it well.”

I think about what Trish said the whole long drive home.

Technically, we didn’t need to hire a nanny right away, my college classes are only in the mornings. But I knew the second I told Kyle I’d be using my parents’ money to pay for it, it would bruise his ego. The man takes immense pride in providing for us, even now, even while betraying me behind my back.

It’s been almost four weeks since I found out. Four weeks of pretending. Of swallowing every scream. I’ve tried to act normal around him, like I don’t know what he’s doing when he stays late in the office or takes his phone into the bathroom. But I’m sure he senses something.

The last few times he tried to initiate something in bed, I made excuses, headache, exhaustion, an early class. But he’s going to break soon. We haven't gone this long without… ever.

And I just... can’t bring myself to let him touch me.

God, what a joke. He cheats, and I’m the one drowning in shame and disgust. Miserable.

So, yeah, I did something morally grey. Definitely illegal. But worth it? Yes. Just to make him a little miserable, too.

The day Kyle got back from Boston, I shared something with Marianne. Just a passing comment, about how Kyle will expect sex. Some things you only say to your sister. And boy, did she come through.

Turns out, the same meds our mom was prescribed for menopause, but never opened, affect men a little differently.

Let’s just say... Kyle’s about to have a little trouble rising to the occasion.

I smirk to myself at the red light, fingers tapping the steering wheel.

No, it’s not a permanent solution. But the idea of him trying to screw one of his little whores and not being able to? That knowledge is like a shot of espresso to my soul.

Oh, how times change. You take the joy where you can get it.

This morning, he muttered something about how sore his nipples were.

“must’ve hit chest day too hard.”

I nearly choked on my coffee.

Poor thing. Wait until next week.

I get home around three. The house is quiet, too quiet for a weekday afternoon and I pause at the door, almost suspicious.

It’s strange, coming home to a clean house. Luna, the nanny we hired part-time, was technically only supposed to get the kids from school and stay with them until I get home at four. But the thing is, she does more. Quietly, without asking. The lunch dishes are stacked neatly in the sink instead of scattered across the table. The floor doesn’t have a trail of crushed crackers or someone’s sock left behind. Homework folders are lined up on the side table.

The air smells faintly of lemon-something and chicken nuggets.

I drop my bag by the door and blink.

Is this what it’s like for men? Coming home and not having to do a damn thing?

No wonder they get lazy.

I walk into the den and find all three kids huddled on the couch with the TV on low. Levi's curled up with a blanket, sketching something in a notebook. Jemma and Iris are flipping through flashcards, probably a game Luna made up.

“Hey, my babies,”

I say softly, and they look up in unison.

“Moooom”

Iris says like I screamed it at pickup

“You’re home,”

Iris says, when I lower myself to sit beside them.

“Did class get cancelled?”

“Nope, just ended on time for once.”

I brush her hair behind her ear.

“Where’s Luna?”

“In the backyard. She said we could watch TV after we finished our math,”

Levi says proudly.

“I hate maths,”

Jemma adds.

“And Levi won’t let me copy his answers.”

I glance up at Levi. He shrugs, but there’s a little pride in his eyes.

“You can do it,”

I say, kissing her forehead.

Levi cracks a tiny smile.

“I even put my plate in the sink.”

“Wow,”

I tease.

“Who are you, and what have you done with my children?”

They laugh, and I let myself sink into the moment. Just for now. Just for them.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, Trish’s voice echoes: "Start documenting. Use your access while you still have it."

And I will.

I’m just not sure what to do with all of it. The advice. The plan. The cold calculations

Because Kyle, God help me, Kyle is a good dad.

Not perfect, no. He misses things. He shows up for five minutes and then disappears behind a work call. But he shows up. He knows Levi’s meds by heart. He remembers Jemma’s love for all things space. He brings home sketch pads for Iris without being asked.

And I can’t believe I’m saying that like it’s a bad thing. Like consistency should feel like manipulation. Like effort should make me feel small.

But it does. Because every time he remembers a parent-teacher conference or kisses them on the head before bed, it’s like he’s stacking stones on a scale I can’t control. Like he’s quietly building his case without knowing there is a case.

So yeah, Kyle’s a good dad. And that makes this a thousand times harder.

Because I know the court won't care about the years I felt alone, or the silence between us at night, or how much I cried in the shower after pretending everything was fine for the kids.

And Kyle will have just enough on record to look golden.

He showed up for the big events, recitals, birthdays, picnics, but I was the one who did everything in between. I picked them up from school. I packed lunches. I chased down teachers and insurance companies.

But that’s not what people remember.

The moms at school practically worship him. They see a man who shows up in a pressed shirt, who remembers which kid is allergic to what, and they act like he’s a hero. A god among distracted fathers.

Meanwhile, it’s expected of me to handle everything else alone.

All they’ll see is a dad who showed up... and a mom who left for a month.

And in court, that’s all it will take.

Which means I can’t afford to be sentimental. Not anymore.