Page 19 of Absolution (Infidelty #3)

Jackie

“So, I can leave him,” I say.

Miguel Garbonza leans back in his worn desk chair, chewing slowly on a blueberry muffin I brought as a peace offering. He’s a law professor at Austin Community College, teaches family law and legal ethics, or so the course guide says. But the real reason I’m here is because I heard through the grapevine that he used to be a high-powered divorce attorney until he got disbarred. No one says why. I didn’t ask. Honestly, I didn’t care.

I waited outside his office for forty minutes until he had a free break. Now here I am, sitting across from him while he wipes crumbs off his desk with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Well, yes,”

he says finally.

“You can leave him. But I’d suggest waiting.”

“Why?”

He puts the rest of the muffin aside and leans in.

“Okay, listen. You’re in your first year of a program that will lead to stable employment. You’ve got some money saved from your inheritance, right?”

I nod.

“You’ve got a solid support system, siblings, correct?”

Another nod.

“Good. Now if you filed for divorce today, especially aiming for 50/50 custody? You’d likely get it. Judges here aren’t blind. They’d sympathize.”

I smile faintly, but then he holds up a finger.

“But,”

he says.

“if your husband decides to be petty, which you suspect he will…”

I nod again. No hesitation.

“Then he could draw this out. Make you burn through your savings. Bleed you dry in paperwork and delays until you’re stuck settling for whatever he wants. That’s what lawyers do. They wait you out.”

“So, what do I do?”

“You wait. You build. You only get the element of surprise once.”

“I’ve tried to gather proof,”

I admit.

“But he hasn’t used any of the credit cards. Not since I found out.”

“Do you know of any confirmed instance where he was with another woman?”

“Boston,”

I say.

“It was supposedly a business trip. I showed up unannounced, and caught him at the hotel.”

“Did he pay for that with a personal card?”

“No. Company card.”

That stops him. His eyes flicker with interest.

“So, you don’t have access to it?”

“No.”

“But if you file, and this comes out, it could be subpoenaed. If he used company funds for something personal, especially that personal, it could jeopardize his job.”

“I know.”

My voice lowers.

“And that’s the problem.”

Garbonza cocks his head.

“You don’t want him to lose the job?”

“Our son… Levi. He has serious medical issues. The insurance through Kyle’s job has saved us, more than once. His transplant, post-op care, none of that was cheap.”

He nods slowly, the corners of his mouth tugging down.

“So, you want to hurt him, but not destroy him.”

I sigh.

“I don’t know what I want. Some days I want to burn everything. His job. His reputation. But most days… I just want a way out that doesn’t wreck my kids.”

“Then your leverage is timing. Keep building. Keep documenting. If it’s a custody battle, you need evidence that shows you’ve been the stable parent, the primary caregiver. Not just in spirit, but on paper.”

“Like what?”

“Receipts. Medical forms. School records. Pictures. His absences. Anything that builds a pattern. But if you want to shake him enough to cooperate, to settle instead of fight, then get your hands on what you can. You don’t have to use it, but leverage is everything. The worse, the better.”

I stare down at my hands.

“The worst thing he ever did to me? That’s easy.”

He waits.

“He was screwing another woman while I was home, pregnant with quadruplets. The night I went into labour… he wasn’t there. I had to call 911 by myself. It took too long. Our firstborn, Duke, he didn’t make it.”

Garbonza exhales through his nose, slowly.

“Can you prove that?”

“It was twelve years ago,”

I say.

“But I can try.”

“You should. Even just hotel records from that night. Call logs. Maybe the EMT report. If it shows he wasn’t home while you were in active labour…”

“I know what it shows.”

He stands, brushing his hands off.

“If you can get that, and pair it with current evidence of parental neglect, even just passive absence, then you’re walking into court with power. Real power.”

I stand too.

“Good luck,”

he says.

“Be smart. And make it real.”

Driving home, I know the kids won’t be back from school for another hour. The house will be empty. I’ve had this opportunity before, and every time I hesitated. Not today.

I park fast, unlock the the door, and head straight for his office like I’m crossing enemy lines.

The door’s closed, not locked.

I push it open, heart pounding. His office is just how he left it, tidy, with everything in its place. His computer is right on the desk. He has a work laptop but keeps his important files on this computer and keeps it mostly offline. Taking a seat, I take a sticky note and stick it on the camera on top of the screen. I don’t even know why I do it. Paranoia, maybe.

The second it turns on; I type in the password.

His files are organized, of course they are. There’s a hidden folder right on the desktop labelled ‘Corporate Card.’

I click.

Bingo.

There it is: the full card number, his login credentials for the online portal, a PDF with monthly summaries, even a file labelled "Reimbursements." But the bills only go back five years. Nothing older. Shit.

Still, I take photos of everything, card details, passwords, each summary. No way I’m printing. Too risky.

I check his downloads. Nothing suspicious. Then his videos. All blank. This is clearly his work machine.

Damn it.

I move to email. His main inbox is filled with deposition notes, filings, case updates. All lawyer stuff.

Come on, come on.

Out of desperation, I connect to the Wi-Fi before clicking on Chrome. His profile is the same but there’s a second private one. I click on it without hesitation.

New email account. Still lawyer-related, but not firm addresses, more freelance consultations, personal communications. Why create a second account just for this?

Scrolling through, most of it is boring. Then, ping.

A new email comes in, right as I’m about to give up.

It’s a reply to one Kyle sent moments earlier. Subject line.

“Card reconciliation.”

I click.

“Attached are checks made to the company account for the amount charged for personal use to the cc.”

It’s addressed to his boss. I’m guessing “cc”

means corporate card.

The reply.

“Lol how long are you gonna use the company card to hide shit from your wife?”

I freeze.

Then I start taking pictures.

Dozens of emails pop up when I search “payment.”

Jesus, how many times has he done this?

I don’t miss the irony. Kyle probably saved all this shit so he wouldn’t get in trouble for using the corporate card for his affairs. Probably never thought his stupid wife would know to check.

I lose my grip when I spot something that looks like a hospital bill. God, don’t tell me he had an STD.

I don’t read them. No time. I just snap photo after photo, documenting the trail. I don’t stop until I hit the very first email.

It’s dated the day after we brought the girls home from the NICU.

My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s a text from Luna; ‘Picked up the kids.’

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Calmly, I switch back to Kyle’s profile, open his history, and delete my activity. Then I disconnect from the Wi-Fi before shutting the computer down. I stand, reposition his chair exactly how I found it, making sure nothing looks touched.

I’m halfway to the door when I double back and peel the post it off the camera.

With time to spare, I slide into my car and start driving. I think about heading to Marianne’s, but I need a printer. I need to have this shit physically in my hands. And the only person I know who owns one?

Cory.

Dammit.

Could I just go to a shop and print them? Sure. But I don’t want to waste time. I drive to his apartment, praying he’s at work. I knock several times, but there’s no sound inside. Good. I use my emergency key.

Is it an invasion of privacy? Yup. Do I care? Nope. Maybe I’ll apologize in twelve years.

I connect my phone to his printer and hit print. 108 pages. Some double-sided. Jesus. Hope he has enough ink.

To kill time, I head to the kitchen, pour myself a generous glass of OJ, and settle on the couch.

Less than ten minutes later, I hear keys fumbling at the door. It sounds like he’s fighting a bear out there. I don’t move, just sip my juice.

Cory stumbles in. Not alone. He’s got a woman pressed up against him, lips locked, already unbuttoning his shirt.

I clear my throat.

They spring apart.

Cory’s eyes are glassy. The girl looks horrified.

“Oh my God, are you married?”

she asks, turning on him.

Before he can answer, she slaps him hard across the face.

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea,”

she mutters, before bolting out the door.

I take another sip.

“She was nice.”

Cory glances at me.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can’t a girl visit her brother?”

“I’ve called you a hundred times the past two days.”

“I know.”

The printer hums in the background. He glances that way, confused.

“I needed a printer,” I say.

He starts apologizing again. I hold up a hand.

“I’m nowhere near ready to forgive you. But what the fuck are you doing? It’s three in the afternoon and you’re drunk.”

He shrugs.

“You said you wanted to divorce me, so you don’t get an opinion.”

“I said I can’t divorce you. Dickwad, big difference.”

Getting up, I grab the stack of pages, now printed and warm in my hands.

“You did a bad thing, Cory. Own up to it. Stop being pathetic.”

With that I walk to the door.

Harsh? Maybe. But I’ve got zero fucks left to give.

Back in the car, I call Marianne.

“Hey,”

she answers, voice groggy and scratchy with sleep.

“Hey. Where are you?”

She groans softly.

“Driving home. Why?”

“I need a home base to go through some discovery,”

I say, sliding into my best Law the building only has three and no elevator. Moving her in had been fun.

The door swings open before I even knock. She stands there in scrubs, hair half up, and eyes barely open.

“You look like death,” I say.

“I feel like death. That’s why I left the door unlocked. Come in, take over my life.”

She steps aside and waves me in, already shuffling toward her bedroom.

She gestures to the thick stack in my hands.

“Do I want to know?”

“Nope.”

“Couch is yours. I’m going to pass out for, like, forever.”

“Sleep. I’ll keep quiet.”

She gives me a one-armed hug, then disappears into her room. I hear the bedroom door click shut.

The apartment falls silent.

I drop onto the couch, the documents heavy in my lap like a physical form of his betrayal. My hand rests on them for a second. Just a second.

Then I get to work.

First, the reconciliation emails. I cross-check them with his credit card bills. According to the bills, he stayed at some hotels for several days, but only filed reconciliation for one.

Huh. Mr. Integrity.

The list isn’t long. Most of the charges are what you’d expect. A couple dinners, rideshare apps. Then I spot something… odd. A recurring charge to a porn site. Two, actually. He charged porn to his business card?

Who does that?

But none of that compares to the line item that stops my heart.

Northview Medical Centre. Five figures. Hospital stay, surgical fee, labs.

I stare at the date.

One year ago. I remember the date. Vividly.

He was in Chicago, helping a high-profile client who got into legal trouble. Stayed two weeks. Claimed he was buried in meetings. Barely called.

And all this time, I thought he was just being cold. Distant.

Not in surgery.

The billing summary lists the procedure like it’s just another formality: ‘Bilateral Vasectomy - Outpatient + Extended Observation.’

Extended observation. What does that even mean?

He got a vasectomy. While I was here. With three children. Alone.

And he never said a word.

Motherfucker.

It all builds quietly after that.

The weeks pass in layers, measured in school pickups, lecture notes, late-night coffee, and silent dinners where I looked at Kyle and smiled like I wasn’t holding the truth in my back pocket. I waited. I planned. I gathered myself like armour.

And now…

“Today’s the day,”

I say, half to the group, half to myself.

We’re back in the circle, plastic chairs, lukewarm coffee in paper cups, and faces that have grown familiar. Nine women and Don, all who’ve walked their own minefields. Some are bruised, some are bold, but all of them know what it’s like to watch your world fall apart and somehow still have to pack school lunches.

Trish tilts her head.

“You’re telling him?”

I nod.

“I’ve been reading these books on divorce, co-parenting, trauma, all of it. And they all say the same thing. Don’t make your spouse your enemy.”

A few scoffs, a few nods. Trish just watches me.

“I might hate him,”

I say quietly.

“but we have three kids. And for them, it has to be civil.”

Trish’s voice is soft but firm.

“Sounds like you already know what you need to do.”

“I saw a therapist,”

I add.

“Got cleared. Of sound mind.”

I laugh.

“Dubious, but whatever.”

Trish smiles.

“That’s all the time we have, everyone. See you next week.”

Chairs scrape. Hugs are exchanged. The usual chorus of “see you”

an.

“take care.”

Kate lingers behind, like she’s waiting.

“Coffee?” she asks.

I nod. “Yeah.”

We walk next door to the café. Trish usually joins us, but today’s her grandson’s birthday. The barista knows our faces by now, two regular coffees and a pastry each. Mine’s an almond croissant. Hers is some peanut butter thing I never understood. We sit near the window, the Texas sun slanting across the table. We don’t say anything until our order arrives.

Then leans forward.

“So, what’s the plan?”

I tear off a piece of the croissant.

“The lawyer Professor Garbonza hooked me up with, he’s good. Knows his stuff. He said I have everything I need to win if it goes to court. Proof, support system, even a therapist’s note saying I’m stable.”

“But?”

“But he says not to file yet.”

I sigh.

“Apparently you only get the element of surprise once. And if I tip my hand too early, Kyle will drag it out just to drain my money.”

Kate winces.

“So, you tell him first?”

“Yeah. In a calm setting. No drama. Just say I know, and I want a divorce. Make it sound like a mutual separation, keep things civil for the kids. Then file.”

She leans back, lips pursed.

“You think he’ll go for that?”

“I don’t care if he does or not. It’s not about him.”

I swirl the coffee in my cup.

“It’s about me not burning everything down unless I absolutely have to.”

Kate watches me for a long moment.

“That takes strength.”

“No,”

I say.

“It takes kids.”

She nods. Doesn’t argue.

We finish the rest of our pastries in silence. She asks if I want company later, but I shake my head. This is something I have to do on my own.

Because today is the day.

Anyway.

“Tell me about your week,”

I say.

“Did you finally talk to your mom?”

She sighs, eyes flicking down to her coffee. “No,”

she says, turning the cup slowly between her hands.

“Kate…”

She exhales.

“I know. I know I need to. But every time I try, it’s like she just... glosses over the bad shit. Like just because she’s ready now, I’m supposed to forget the past.”

Kate’s parents left when she was sixteen t.

“travel the world.”

Just up and left. By the time they came back, she had two kids and no room for dreamers. She’s too kind to stop them from seeing the boys, but her mom’s been pushing lately. Not just to be Nana, but to be Mom again. And that line? That’s harder.

“Why don’t you tell her that?”

I ask gently.

“I’ve tried. But it doesn’t help that even my therapist thinks I should forgive them. Says they did the best they could.”

“Wow.”

I take a sip of my coffee.

“I left once,”

I say, surprising even myself with the confession.

“After my parents died. I couldn’t handle it. So, I just... left. For a whole month. I didn’t see my kids. Not physically. I was drowning, in grief, in exhaustion, but I came back. Because that’s what you do.”

I meet her eyes.

“So, if you’re pissed, you have the right to be. Tell your mother she did the best she could by leaving, well, you’re doing the best you can by letting her and your dad have a relationship with your kids. That’s grace. That’s boundaries.”

Kate’s quiet for a moment. Then she takes a deep breath, letting it out slow.

“It’s easier with my dad,”

she says.

“He pushed at first, but then he understood. Gave me space. Let me set the terms.”

She swallows.

“My mom, though…”

“She still wants to rewrite the story,”

I finish for her.

Kate nods, looking down again. “Yeah.”

We sit like that, two women holding too many truths. My hands around my cup. Hers around the past.

Some families break and heal. Others break and pretend they didn’t.

I guess today’s the day I decide which kind mine’s going to be.

Driving home, I think about my own family. I still haven’t forgiven Cory.

Marianne asked me the other day what I would’ve done if he’d told me back then, told me that Kyle had been at a hotel probably with another woman the night I went into early labour, and not at the office like he claimed.

The truth is, I don’t know what I would’ve done or could have done. But I do know I would’ve liked the choice.

That’s what it comes down to. Choice. Being robbed of the truth is one thing. Being robbed of the option to decide how to move forward? That’s a different kind of betrayal. Cory didn’t just protect Kyle; he took something from me.

And Kyle…

If I’m correct, the hotel charges to the corporate card started in May 2021. If I’m remembering right, that’s around the time lockdown lifted and he started going back to the office. The return of long nights. Overnight meetings. Strategic silence.

I’d been too busy making up for the time I’d left, too busy overcompensating, trying to prove I was still a good mother, a present wife. I didn’t even question the lies. Not then.

I have a folder full of proof. Pages and pages of it. Hotel receipts, the vasectomy, doctor’s appointments he missed, the ‘I have a meeting’ replies to my requests for him to pick up the kids from school. They say paper cuts hurt because they’re small but deep.

No photos, though. No smoking gun.

I tried. I really did. But his latest rendezvous is always at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday and I can’t afford to skip the skills class I need to graduate, especially since the professor already doesn’t like me.

I chose my future; besides I already have enough leverage. I don’t need to catch him in the act. I already have the story. And the proof.

Now I just have to talk to Kyle. I need to look him in the eye and say, I know.

And then I need to find out who I am, on the other side of that moment.