Page 5 of Absolution (Infidelty #3)

Jackie Twelve days later

I thought the hard part was over.

I thought once the surgery was done, once I opened my eyes and heard they were alive, most of them, that the worst would be behind me.

But I was wrong.

Because this? This is harder.

Waking up every morning in a sterile room that smells like antiseptic and plastic tubing, my stomach stitched and bandaged so tight I feel like I’ve been zipped shut. I can’t sit up without help. I can’t walk without someone holding my elbow. I haven’t seen the sun in days, only the dim yellow light of this hospital and the bright, too-white buzz of the NICU.

I still can’t hold them. They’re covered in wires and it’s not safe, not yet. All I want to do is hold them in my arms, keep them safe but I can’t.

They wheel me in twice a day, sometimes three if I beg. A nurse gently lifts the plastic covers on the incubator, lets me peer in.

Jemma and Iris are in one now, a shared twin isolette, something about skin proximity and regulating each other’s breathing. It’s supposed to be good for them, to help them feel safe, connected. And maybe it’s working, because the first time I saw them nestled together, their tiny bodies curled toward each other like magnets, I broke down crying in a way I hadn’t since I found out about Duke.

Their vitals are steady. They’ve graduated from ventilators to CPAP. They twitch in their sleep. Clench their little fists. Kick like they’re ready to fight their way into the world.

The nurses say they’re doin.

“remarkably well”

for their condition. They call them strong. Resilient.

I cry every time I see them, but it’s a clean kind of ache. Hopeful.

Then there’s Levi.

He’s not improving. If anything, he’s slipping. He’s alone now. His twin is gone.

And no matter how many wires or monitors they hook him up to, no matter how loudly the ECMO machine hums beside him, I can’t stop thinking that maybe part of him knows. Maybe babies know these things. That the person they were growing with, sleeping besides, dreaming in sync with... isn’t there anymore.

His incubator is bigger. Isolated. The room feels colder when I wheel up to him. His colour is off, he’s greyish, fragile. They’ve dimmed the lights around his bed, covered his eyes with tiny foam shades to protect them. The machine controls everything, his heartbeat, his breathing, the blood flow. I can’t even see his chest move. It’s like he’s waiting. Floating.

They say ECMO is a last resort. That his lungs just aren’t ready to do the job. That he needs time. But how much time does a baby get before hope turns into statistics?

The only child of mine I’ve held… was the one who never lived.

Duke Finn Greyson.

He never took his first breath. But he was ours. He always will be. When they handed him to me, wrapped in a blanket, still and small, he was already gone.

I pressed my lips to his forehead and gave him every ounce of love I had. And then I let him go.

His twin is still here, still fighting. So, I gave him a name that belongs only to him.

Levi Greyson. No.

“the twin that lived.”

Not a shadow. But a warrior. My son.

Sometimes I whisper all four names just to keep them close. Jemma. Iris. Levi. Duke.

I don’t say them out loud when Kyle’s in the room. He let me name them. Guilt, maybe. Or love. I didn’t ask. He says he’s sorry, but I'm not sure I believe him. He comes every day now. He’s here when I wake up with coffee and flowers and books he thinks I’ll read. He even asks the nurses questions and takes notes when doctors talk. Googling every condition, every number on the NICU monitors, he hasn’t left my side, not unless he has to.

I want to believe he’ll stay, that he won’t leave again, but a part of me feels like I may never forgive him for abandoning me when I needed him the most. For letting me go through that nightmare alone. He was supposed to be there. To hold my hand. To catch me when everything fell apart. And he wasn’t.

Grief has a way of distorting everything. There are moments I want to scream at him until my voice gives out. Ask him how he could do this to me. Why he didn’t answer. Why he left me to bleed and break alone. But then there are moments I want to collapse against his chest, feel his arms around me and pretend we’re okay.

So, I do neither. I stay silent. I let him sit beside me. I let him hold my hand when the nurse adjusts my IV or when I cry looking at Levi through the glass.

Because the babies need him.

Because, even though I hate to admit it, I still need him too.

I feel like my body’s failed me twice. First in labour. Then in feeding. The nurses say it’s normal to struggle with pumping. I try, every two hours like they told me. I stare at the little machine; I imagine their mouths instead of the cold plastic. Most days I barely get a few ounces. Once, nothing came out at all, and I cried so hard the lactation consultant had to sit beside me and just hold my hand.

Everyone says.

“You did amazing,”

like I had a choice. Like I really gave birth. But I didn’t. I was unconscious. I didn’t fight. The doctors did. The machines did.

Kyle says it too sometimes, softly when he thinks I’m half-asleep. That I’m strong. That I saved them.

But the truth is, I didn’t save all of them.

At night, when Kyle sleeps in the corner chair, snoring lightly, I lay awake and try to will Levi into healing. I whisper to him through the walls. I pray to every God I’ve ever heard of.

I thank the universe for Jemma and Iris. For the way they blink when I hover over them. For the way their tiny hands already reach out like they know me. And I hold onto that.

Because in this place, it’s so easy to drown.

But I’ve got three babies who need me.

And a husband I still love, even when it hurts to look at him.

So, I’ll keep fighting. Keep trying. Keep showing up, even on the days it feels like I have nothing left to give.

Because I’ve already lost one child.

I won’t lose another.

The lights are off except for the soft glow from under the door. I can’t sleep. I haven’t in days. The pain meds dull the ache, but nothing touches the grief.

I hear a door click open, followed by soft footsteps. The sofa across the room dips slightly. Kyle. He smells like the cheap lavender hand soap from the visitor bathroom.

“Hey,”

he says quietly.

He hasn’t been able to sit still since he first got here. Kyle’s been going from my room to the NICU to home and back. He’s picking up clothes, talking to nurses, to the insurance people, basically keeping everything in check.

My father-in-law didn’t show up for any of this, but apparently, he pulled some strings to get us this suite. Private shower. A sofa that turns into a bed. A view of the parking garage. Luxury.

This isn’t the first night we’re staying in here. It’s like Kyle thinks sleeping on an uncomfortable chair instead of letting the nurse turn the sofa into a bed will atone for his sins.

I stay silent, turning my face toward the wall. He takes it like he has for the past few days. But tonight, something in me wonders.

“Why?”

I whisper. My voice is hoarse.

“Why didn’t you come home that night?”

He doesn’t respond right away. He knows exactly what night I mean.

“Don’t say you had a case,”

I add.

“You’re lying. I know.”

A long breath. I hear him shift, maybe leaning forward, maybe trying to come up with something better. Then finally.

“I was at a bar,”

he says.

“And then… I went back to the office and passed out.”

My eyes sting. I keep my face turned away. My voice cracks when I ask.

“Were you alone?”

“Jesus,”

he says, voice low and pained. “Yes.”

I don’t answer. I just stare at the wall, like I’ll find peace there.

“I was just... scared, Jackie,”

he continues, quieter.

“All that stuff about you and the babies being in danger, it got in my head. I didn’t know how to handle it. So, I shut down.”

I let out a bitter laugh. It tastes like acid.

“Must’ve been nice. Getting to shut down.”

“I know what I did was horrible,”

he says after a beat.

“But have you seen it from my side? I watched you fade away. My wife, stuck in bed, hurting, scared. And I couldn’t fix it. I didn’t know how.”

I finally turn to look at him. His silhouette is blurred, just a dark shape against the city lights outside the window.

“The one night I turned off my phone…”

he says, voice breaking.

“you needed me. And our kids… Duke…”

He trails off.

“I made one mistake,”

he whispers. His words feel like a cop-out. But his voice… it’s not cold. It’s cracked open. Bare.

“I’m not perfect either,”

I say quietly.

“But you pulled away from me, Kyle. You left me to carry this alone.”

“I didn’t mean to,”

he says instantly.

“After that doctor said all the risks, and you started second-guessing… I felt like maybe I forced you into this. Four babies. All at once. It felt like every time you told me something was wrong; you were blaming me. And maybe… maybe it was because I was already blaming myself.”

I don’t speak.

“I thought if I could just pretend everything was okay, then maybe it would be,”

he goes on.

“That if I kept showing up, doing the things, I could still be the guy you married.”

Kyle lifts his head. Even in the dark, I can feel his eyes on me.

“But I wasn’t,”

he says, voice rough.

“I haven’t been.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My hand rests on my belly, still slightly swollen, stitched together beneath the gown. The doctors said the swelling will take time to go down, that the muscles will settle, but what they didn’t say is how empty it would feel. How quiet.

There’s no uterus beneath my skin anymore. Just space. Just loss. Another thing they never prepare you for. They talk about saving your life like it’s enough. Like surviving should cancel out the grief of everything you lost along the way.

It’s not all black and white. People disappoint you. They break your heart. They abandon you when you’re at your weakest. So, what then? Do you stay? Or do you leave?

I don’t know. Not yet. But I know this: pain doesn’t always mean something is over. And love doesn’t always mean you forget. Sometimes it just means choosing to heal side by side, even when the cracks still show.

“I miss who we were,”

I say, finally.

“I miss… us.”

“Me too.”

He walks over to my bed. I scoot over to make space. In the next moment, he’s holding me. Everything is not okay. Our children still have a long way to go, but maybe we don’t have to go through it alone.

Hot tears roll down my cheeks as I press my face into his shoulder. Kyle’s shoulders shake, his breath coming in jagged gasps, deep and loud, like something breaking open.

For the first time since everything fell apart, we cry together. Not over what we said. Not even over what we lost. But for what we’re still trying to hold onto.

Us.

“I’m so sorry,”

he whispers into my hair.

“I’ll never leave again.”

I want to believe him.

Maybe I already do.

We stay like that for a long time. Wrapped in grief. In guilt. In love that’s bruised but not broken.

Two people in the dark, holding each other like we still matter.

Because we do.