Page 16 of Absolution (Infidelty #3)

Kyle July, 2024

“Dad!”

I jolt awake to the sound of three pairs of feet thundering into the bedroom. Iris is already halfway onto the bed. Jemma’s right behind her, and Levi's holding a plate dangerously close to tipping.

Looking at the time, I’m shocked to see it’s barely 6 a.m. Usually Jackie lets me sleep in on my day.

“Happy Birthday, Dad!”

they all shout at once.

“Thanks, guys,”

I say, sitting up with a yawn and a dull headache humming behind my eyes.

“Dad, we made you breakfast!”

Iris says, thrusting a plate toward me. Scrambled eggs and toast, burnt at the edges, but still warm.

“Yum,”

I say, grinning and making a big show of taking each bite like its gourmet. They giggle every time I groan dramatically and say, “So good.”

Levi sits on the bed, hoisting a shopping bag beside him.

“We got you gifts, too!”

The bag is set in front of me. Smiling, I begin digging through the tissue paper. The first thing I pull out is a box. It takes every ounce of strength to keep the smile on my face.

“It’s a gutter cleaner,”

Levi says proudly.

“It’s the latest model.”

“Wow,”

I say, nodding like this is exactly what I dreamed of.

“That’s... super practical. Thank you.”

Iris bounces forward next.

“Mine’s in the envelope!”

I open it, pull out a folded card and a printed receipt.

“Subscription to Modern Lawn Care Monthly?”

I glance at her, amused.

“It comes with a free soil testing kit!”

she says.

“And a 10% discount on eco-fertilizers!”

“Of course it does.”

Jemma snorts.

“Mine’s the best, though.”

She hands over a large, awkwardly wrapped package. I tear through the paper and reveal a brand-new garden hose. Heavy-duty. Industrial length. Bright neon green.

“Dad,”

she says, grinning.

“it has eight spray settings.”

I look at all three of them, trying not to laugh.

“So… just to be clear, this year for my birthday I’ve received a gutter cleaner, a lawn magazine subscription, and a high-powered hose?”

They all nod enthusiastically.

“This is officially the most dad birthday I’ve ever had.”

I’m still chewing on the gifts when Jackie walks in. She’s holding a steaming cup of coffee in my favourite mug.

“There you go,”

she says, handing me the mug.

“Hi, honey,”

I say, a little surprised. She’s wearing leggings and one of my old shirts, her hair still damp from a shower. She looks... happy. Lighter.

“Can we tell him? Can we tell him?”

Levi’s practically vibrating where he sits, kicking his feet against the bedframe.

“Tell me what?”

I ask, grinning.

All three turn to Jackie. She gives a small nod, and suddenly it’s chaos.

“We’re going to Zilker Park!”

Iris blurts, already grinning wide.

“Yup,”

Jemma says, pulling a folded flyer from her pocket like it’s a secret mission.

“You get to hang out with just us. All day.”

“We’re gonna ride the train,”

Levi jumps in.

“and eat at that food truck with the tacos and maybe rent kayaks if it doesn’t rain!”

I blink.

“Whoa, family day?”

Jackie smiles, arms crossed loosely.

“I only managed to get the four of you on the all-day pass. Lunch, activities, everything’s covered.”

The kids all talk over each other again, already listing what they want to do first. I watch them, heart full.

“That’s... really cool,”

I say honestly.

“Thank you.”

I glance at Jackie and reach for her hand, but she’s already stepping back, giving a quick clap to quiet the chatter.

“Okay, okay, go grab your water bottles and jackets if you want to make the train ride.”

As they scatter, I ask quietly.

“Why don’t you come with us?”

She hesitates, then shakes her head with a small smile.

“This is for you. All yours.”

I miss her.

She’s still here. Still says the right things. Still makes me coffee in the morning, still smiles at me in that practiced, familiar way. But something’s shifted. I feel it.

Before, whenever I reached out, she was there. Without question. Now... it’s like the tide’s turned. She moves around me like water, always present, never touching. I kiss her cheek; she tilts her head. I reach for her hand; she’s already grabbing her phone.

She goes out of her way to avoid me. Polite. Efficient. Unreachable.

And the worst part? I can’t even do anything about it.

I haven’t been with anyone since that concierge in Boston. Not since that incident with Clara, either, not that anything really happened. It was like my body knew I didn’t really want her.

I’ve stopped going to the gym. Started taking warmer showers, like that’s going to trick my body back into responding. But nothing helps.

It’s like my dick is dead.

And no, I haven’t gone to a doctor. Why would I?

It’s just stress. Work’s been insane, Jackie’s been off, the kids are nonstop. Probably adrenal fatigue or something. Happens to men in high-pressure fields all the time.

Yeah. That’s it. I’m fine. I'm gonna spend the day with my kids, what could be better?

I’m happy, I really am. But all I feel is tired. Still, I get up and get dressed before heading downstairs.

Jackie’s by the kitchen counter, zipping up a canvas bag like she’s the one going on the trip. She hands it to me and starts rattling off contents like a checklist.

“Sunscreen, snacks, three water bottles with initials. Big one’s yours. Don’t forget to actually use the sunscreen. Oh, and grab the portable charger from your office.”

She kisses each of the kids on the head. Levi ducks away, pretending it’s gross. Iris rolls her eyes but smiles. Jemma says.

“Ugh, Mom, stop,”

and then hugs her anyway.

To me, Jackie just gives a bright, school-trip-chaperone wave.

“You’ve got everything you need,”

she says.

“Have fun.”

She doesn’t kiss me.

I load the kids into the car. Adjust the mirror. Jackie’s still in the doorway, hand up, smiling like everything’s okay.

The drive to Zilker Park is loud in that uniquely middle-school way. Levi hums the wrong words to some YouTuber remix. Iris begs to use my phone’s Bluetooth because sh.

“has the perfect playlist.”

Jemma’s googlin.

“weird animals that live in parks”

and is convinced she saw a possum on the sidewalk.

By the time we arrive, it’s warm and crowded. Families everywhere. The air smells like grilled meat and someone’s very strong cologne.

The first half of the day is... actually kind of great.

We ride the Zilker Zephyr twice because Iris insists the second time is better. We split overpriced ice cream sandwiches, and have a picnic under a tree with a surprisingly clean bench. Levi makes a squirrel voice that becomes an ongoing bit. Iris arranges rocks by colour like she’s building a fairy village. Jemma flops on the grass and declares herself th.

“official vibe curator.”

I take pictures. Real ones. Not just for stories or proof. I laugh. I even think, ‘This is working.’

But around noon, it shifts.

The sun cranks up and there’s barely any breeze. Jemma’s cheeks turn too pink. Levi starts coughing more than usual. Iris gets quiet, which is never a good sign, then snaps when her melted popsicle hits her shorts.

That’s when I realize I didn’t reapply sunscreen. I forgot the charger and I didn’t double-check the splash pad schedule. It’s closed. Maintenance. Of course.

My shirt sticks to my back. My phone’s at 3%. The kids are arguing now, over who gets to sit in the shady spot.

I try to stay cool, but my head’s pounding. I glance at the other families, moms with massive tote bags and organized snack bins, probably even a color-coded itinerary in there somewhere. The dads? They’re lounging on blankets, sipping iced coffee, pretending they don’t hear their kids scream.

It makes me want to snap. You conceived them too, pal. You don’t get to clock out because you did your part nine years ago.

But I don’t say it. I just clench my jaw and check Levi’s breathing again.

For the first time in a long time, I wonder, has Jackie always done this much? And when did I stop seeing it?

But that’s for later.

Right now, Levi’s breathing is laboured. Not scary yet, but close enough.

So, I take a breath and keep my voice light.

“Hey guys, change of plans. Let’s head home early. Grab ice cream on the way, surprise Mom.”

It’s subtle, but something in the word home makes them stop bickering. Iris picks up the trash without being asked. Jemma gives Levi her water bottle.

No one complains.

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 it personalized 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, piles of 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, I knew she 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 sing Happy Birthday off-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.

After dinner, I help with dishes. She washes; I dry. It’s almost like muscle memory.

By the time I make it to the bedroom, Jackie’s already there, legs tucked under her, tablet in hand. She doesn’t look up, but she doesn’t shift away either.

I want to say something. I really do. But the second my head hits the pillow, I’m gone.

I pass out.