Page 6 of Absolution (Infidelty #3)

Kyle Four Weeks Later

I made a promise. That night in the hospital, with Jackie crying in my arms, I swore I’d never let her down again and I meant it.

Every day since, I’ve been trying to show her. In the NICU. At home. In the long silences and the quiet moments where she barely looks at me. I don’t blame her, don’t raise my voice.

Jackie was discharged about two weeks after the birth. She’s still sore, still healing. The babies were too small to go home then, but now, Jemma and Iris are coming with us. Today.

We’ve been at the hospital every day since. Every single one. Sleeping in shifts. Holding hands over incubators. Learning how to read the beeping machines, how to feed with syringes and tubes, how to live our life in two-hour increments.

Levi’s not ready yet. He’s our fighter, but he’s still hooked up to machines. His oxygen levels dip too often. His body still struggles to do the one thing that should come naturally, to breathe.

The paediatric doctor, Dr. Lin, asks us to step into his office while the nurse prepares the discharge paperwork for the girls. Jackie moves slowly beside me, one hand resting over her scar like it still stings when she breathes too deep.

Dr. Lin closes the door behind us. Taking a seat, he folds his hands on the table, expression serious.

“Your daughters are ready to go home,”

he says gently.

“They’ve gained enough weight, and their lungs have matured. They’ll still need follow-up, of course, but they’re doing very well.”

Jackie lets out a shaky breath beside me. I grab her hand.

“And Levi?” I ask.

Dr. Lin nods, slowly.

“Levi’s condition is more complicated. He’s made progress, but it’s been slow. He’s not ready to go home yet.”

Jackie stiffens, but doesn’t speak.

“Your son’s condition, PPHN,”

the doctor explains again.

“It happens when a baby’s circulation system doesn’t adapt to breathing outside the womb. In Levi’s case, the blood vessels in his lungs are still too constricted. Instead of delivering oxygenated blood to the rest of his body, his blood is shunting away from the lungs, the way it did in the womb.”

I nod like I haven't already googled the crap out of it.

“He’s on a combination of oxygen therapy, nitric oxide, sildenafil, and diuretics,”

Dr. Lin continues.

“The hope is that over the next few weeks, we’ll see continued improvement. If he maintains this trajectory, we’re looking at another three to four weeks in the NICU.”

Jackie finally speaks, her voice hoarse.

“And then he comes home?”

“With oxygen,”

Dr. Lin says gently.

“A monitor to track his sats. Medications. You’ll have to be trained in emergency response, CPR, and how to handle desaturation events. There will be a home nurse for the first few weeks. It won’t be easy.”

I squeeze her hand.

“We’ll do it.”

Dr. Lin hesitates, flipping a page in his folder.

“I need to prepare you. Most infants with PPHN do improve with time. But there are cases… where the condition doesn’t resolve. If Levi’s pulmonary pressures don’t improve, we’ll need to reevaluate in the coming months.”

“Reevaluate what?”

I ask, already knowing I won’t like the answer.

He looks between us.

“There’s a small subset of infants whose PPHN progresses into chronic pulmonary hypertension. In that case, we may need to start talking about lung or heart-lung transplant down the road. It’s not where we are now. But it’s something you should be aware of, just in case.”

Jackie goes very still.

“But,”

Dr. Lin adds quickly.

“right now, we’re optimistic. He’s responding to treatment. He’s stable. That’s what matters.”

It should comfort me. It doesn’t.

I glance at Jackie. Her eyes stay fixed on the floor, shoulders drawn tight, like she’s bracing for a blow that hasn’t come yet.

“Can we see him?”

she asks quietly.

Dr. Lin nods, but before we can move, Jackie’s voice breaks again.

“I don’t want to leave him here,”

she says. It comes out in a rush, quiet, but gutted.

“It doesn’t feel right… taking the girls home and just… leaving him.”

Dr. Lin softens.

“I understand. But Jackie, you’ve been through a major abdominal surgery. A hysterectomy, on top of a preterm C-section. Your body hasn’t had a chance to recover.”

Jackie swallows, like she wants to argue.

“This is a marathon, not a sprint,”

he continues.

“You’ll still be here every day. But you need rest. You need sleep and real meals. And your daughters, they need you strong and steady. So does Levi.”

He pauses, looking right at her.

“He’s in good hands. You’ve done everything you possibly could. Now let us do our part. Let your body heal.”

Jackie nods slowly, eyes wet.

I glance at the man sitting across from us, this calm, compassionate doctor who’s guided us through hell, and I’m hit by a sharp memory of the last doctor. The one I found after Jackie dared to question the risks, Dr. Stevens. The one who told her nausea was in her head and yoga could fix it. The one who made her doubt herself because I didn’t want to face the truth.

The difference is staggering.

And in that moment, I hate myself a little more. Not for what I did, but for what I let happen. For not protecting her when she needed me to most.

“Let’s go see our boy,”

I say gently.

She nods again, but this time, she lets me help her out of the chair.

We head down the hallway together, two people still reeling, still raw, ready to do it all over again for the one child we can’t bring home yet.

Dr. Lin nods.

“Of course.”

As we leave the office, I glance at her and say the one thing I can promise.

“We’ll get him home, Jackie. No matter what it takes.”

She nods once, not looking at me. But she lets me guide her down the hall, back to our babies.

Two weeks later, the worst happens.

We’re home with the girls, Jemma and Iris, settling into our new, chaotic rhythm. Jackie feeds them on a rotation, pumps religiously, sleeps when they sleep. I handle the diapers, the bottles, the laundry. Her mom helps, sometimes her siblings. I tell them I’ve got it, but they stay anyway.

The nursery’s quiet now, pink and cream and softly lit. Across the hall, Levi’s room is nearly ready. Originally, it was meant to be shared, bunk beds for the boys when they were older. Now it’s just a single crib, surrounded by medical monitors and oxygen tanks. Cory helped me haul the bunk beds out to the garage, and Marianne, Jackie’s sister, helped Jackie mount the oxygen shelf and camera. Everything’s clean. Sterile. Prepared. We were supposed to bring him home next week.

That was the plan.

Then the hospital calls.

It’s late, maybe 10 p.m. Jackie’s just finished nursing Iris when the landline rings. We both freeze. Nobody calls the house anymore. Everyone texts.

Jackie answers. Her hands tremble when she hands me the phone after listening for a while.

“Mr. Greyson,”

the nurse says on the other end.

“It’s Levi. We need you to come in right away.”

By the time we get to the hospital, Levi’s already been intubated again. Alarms still echo faintly down the hallway as we walk to the NICU, hearts thudding.

Dr. Lin meets us outside.

“He’s developed pulmonary interstitial emphysema,”

he says, eyes soft but direct.

“It’s not uncommon in preemies, especially those with chronic lung issues like Levi. Air is leaking into the spaces between the alveoli in his lungs.”

Jackie squeezes my arm, nails digging in.

“He’s stable now,”

Dr. Lin says.

“But we’ve had to switch him to high-frequency oscillatory ventilation. It’s gentler on his lungs. We’ve also started corticosteroids and sedated him to help reduce inflammation and give him rest.”

I don’t ask what it means. I already know.

It means more time.

It means more risk.

It means we almost lost him.

When Jackie and I finally see him, he’s still, too still. Tiny chest fluttering under the rhythm of a machine. His body swaddled in wires and tubes, more plastic than skin.

We stay that night in the NICU family room. We don’t talk much, just listen to his monitors through the glass. Every beep a prayer.

The next morning, Dr. Lin sits with us.

“Levi has developed severe BPD, bronchopulmonary dysplasia. His lungs are fragile. The ventilation he’s needed to survive has caused scarring. Right now, he’s surviving. But there will be long-term consequences.”

Jackie stares down at her lap, jaw clenched.

“We’re hopeful,”

he adds.

“Right now, he’s responding to treatment. He’s stable. That’s what matters.”

But even as he says it, I know. Hope comes with terms and conditions now.

Dr. Lin clears his throat.

“We expect he’ll need another three, maybe four weeks in the NICU. If he continues improving, he can go home on low-flow oxygen, medication, and monitors. You’ll need extensive training before discharge, CPR, emergency response, equipment.”

Jackie breathes through her nose, slow and shaking.

I just nod. I can’t speak. Not yet.

Jackie hasn’t said a word since we left the hospital.

Her body’s angled toward the window; arms wrapped tightly across her stomach like she’s trying to hold herself together. I keep glancing over, half-hoping she’ll talk, half-afraid of what she’ll say.

The car feels too quiet. Too clean. Like it doesn’t match the chaos happening inside both of us.

Then I hear it. Just a sound at first. A sharp inhale. The quiet hitch of breath.

And then she breaks.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just these awful, aching sobs that shake her small frame like aftershocks. Like her body is still trying to catch up to what happened.

I pull over without thinking, putting the car in park on the shoulder of the road. My hand reaches for hers. She doesn’t look at me. Just keeps staring out the window, tears streaking silently down her cheeks.

“We’re gonna lose him, aren’t we,”

she whispers.

Her voice is so small. Like she’s afraid the words themselves will make it real.

I tighten my grip on her hand. “No,”

I say. Not because I know it’s true, but because I have to believe it for both of us.

“No. He’s a fighter. Just like you.”

She shakes her head once, sharp and bitter.

“I couldn’t even carry them to term.”

“You carried them as long as you could,”

I say gently.

“You did everything right. This isn’t your fault.”

“I didn’t even get to hold him.”

Her voice cracks and I lean over, brushing a tear off her cheek with my thumb.

“He knows you’re his mom, Jackie. He knows your voice. You talked to him every night. Remember?”

She bites her lip, trying to stop the tears, but they keep coming.

“They won’t even let me feed him.”

“They will,”

I say, brushing her hair back.

“You’ll hold him. You’ll rock him to sleep. This... this is just the beginning. We’re going to get through it.”

She finally turns her face toward me, eyes red and raw.

“How can you be so calm?”

I exhale slowly.

“I’m not. I’m terrified.”

That’s the truth. Every second I was in that NICU, I was holding back panic like a dam about to burst. But I couldn’t show it. Not in front of her.

“I’m scared,”

I say.

“But I have to have hope.”

For a second, I think she’s going to crumble all over again. But instead, she squeezes my hand. Tight. Desperate.

“Thank you,”

she says softly.

We spend the next two weeks doing everything they ask. We train, we take notes, we ask every question twice. Jackie masters the monitors. I drill the CPR steps into my brain until I can recite them in my sleep.

Eight weeks after the girls came home, Levi does too.

We don’t bring him through the front door. We bring him in through the back, carefully, quietly, straight into his room.

The crib looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. Tubes, wires, backup power. But Jackie sets him down gently, adjusts the cannula with practiced fingers.

He’s home.

Our daughters sleep in the next room.

And Levi, our fighter, is finally where he belongs.

We made it this far.

We’ll face what comes next, together.