Page 9 of Absolution (Infidelty #3)

Jackie February 2021

My mom beat COVID.

She actually beat it.

But it left scars. Long ones. On her lungs, her energy, her memory. We thought we had more time. We thought recovery meant something. But after Winter Storm Uri ended, Cory went to check on her house. The power had come back, but she wasn’t answering her phone.

He found her in bed. Peaceful. Still.

Gone.

She had asked me to come visit her. Said she missed the kids.

I told her it was too risky with Levi’s immune system, made up some excuse about fevers going around at preschool, even though schools were closed. She said I could come alone. I said I was too tired.

I wasn’t too tired. I was scared.

Scared of bringing something in. Scared of seeing her without my dad. Scared of adding one more thing to the pile I was barely balancing.

The woman who held me through every heartbreak. The woman who stayed in the hospital the entire time after I delivered my babies. The woman who whispere.

“You’re doing amazing”

even when I didn’t believe her. I didn’t go see her.

And now I never can.

Kyle is in his office with the door shut. The courts have opened up civil cases again, which means he’s working more. Stressed. Distracted. I’m trying to keep three very loud, very emotional children from screaming through his Zoom depositions. I pretend it’s homeschooling, but let’s be real, it’s survival. We’re all just trying to survive.

My mom wanted me to bring the kids over.

I didn’t.

She said I could just come for tea, even for ten minutes.

I told her no.

And now all I have left is a voicemail I can’t bring myself to listen to.

Kyle yells from his office, “Jackie!”

I don’t answer.

He tells me to leave the dishes and relax, but when I do, I wake up to a full sink, no little elves clean up after me.

He tells me not to be so rigid about Levi’s medications, not to stress over every number, every beep. But if I’m not keeping track, who will?

He says he understands. But I don’t think he does.

Not really.

Not when I feel like I’m grieving my mother alone. He has his family back. After his father recovered, they went back to talking like no time had passed. Like none of the blame, the distance, the silence, ever happened.

I’m here managing a sick child, two growing girls, a pandemic, and now this silence between us that grows louder by the day. It’s like the longer we’re trapped together, the more we bug each other.

Levi’s getting stronger. Strong enough to run, climb, jump, do the things other kids do. Which means he wants to. But he doesn’t always know his limits. And I have to be the one who knows them for him.

I watch him sometimes, chasing his sisters in the yard, cheeks flushed, breath coming quick, and I can see the edge coming before he does. That split second where joy starts to slip into danger. And I have to stop it, call him back, tell him to rest, before the damage is done.

Because if I don’t... who will?

I don’t want to resent Kyle. I really don’t.

But right now, it feels like I’m running a whole life on my own. And some days, I don’t even know who I am anymore.

I’m Jackie.

I’m a mom.

I’m a daughter.

I was a daughter.

And I’m so goddamn tired.

Kyle storms into the kitchen, footsteps loud enough to rattle the dishes in the sink. I blink, pulled out of whatever thought I’d just been drowning in. My hands are still in the soapy water, but I’ve stopped scrubbing.

“What the fuck, Jackie?” he snaps.

I finally turn to look at him. “What?”

His nostrils flare.

“Iris just barged into my office and tried to put a tiara on me, in the middle of a Zoom call. With a judge.”

I should laugh. If I had anything left in me, I might have. “So?”

“So?”

he repeats, incredulous.

“So, I’m trying to work, Jackie. I’m trying to hold onto a job that pays for everything around here, and you can’t even keep the kids out of my office?”

I stare at him, then gesture at the sink.

“I’m doing the dishes.”

“Dishes can wait,”

he says, voice rising.

“You’re supposed to be watching the kids. That’s your job. And clearly, you can’t even do that.”

“Okay,”

I whisper. Not to him. To the sink. To the silence growing behind my ribs.

He waits for more. For a fight. For me to rise to his anger. But there’s nothing in me today. Nothing but a dull hum in my skull and a chest full of static.

He curses under his breath, turns, walks away. A second later, the slam of his office door makes the cabinet beside me rattle.

I just stand there.

Hand still in the water. Staring at a sponge I haven’t moved in minutes. My spine aches from standing. My eyes sting, but I don’t cry. Haven’t cried in days. I think I ran out. Or maybe I’m just too tired.

Tired of pretending I’m okay. Tired of being the strong one. Tired of being the default parent, the nurse, the teacher, the grief container, the housekeeper, the one who absorbs every silence, every slammed door.

I look at the sponge in my hand like it might float me somewhere better. Then I drop it, slowly, and lean on the edge of the sink, my arms trembling from the weight of everything I’m still carrying.

I don’t even know how long I stay like that. Still. Quiet.

Like if I move, I’ll shatter.

I feel like I already have.

Just as I get my breathing under control, I hear the thundering sound of little feet down the hallway.

“Mommy!”

Jemma shouts, breathless, barrelling into the kitchen with Iris right behind her. They’re both in princess dresses again, sticky faces, glitter in their hair, plastic heels clacking wildly on the tile.

I barely have time to register them before Levi dashes in from the other side, his arms pumping, breath short but even. My heart jumps like it always does when he runs. I’m still not used to it, the way his little legs don’t falter, the way he doesn’t gasp or clutch his chest after ten steps.

He skids to a stop in front of the counter, grabs his dinosaur water bottle, then climbs up onto the stool by the fridge where his med dispenser sits. I freeze, watching.

He pops open the blue-lidded compartment, the one labelled TUESDAY- 9:00 A.M. and tips the contents into his mouth. Two pink pills, one round white one. He chugs water, makes a face, then wipes his mouth on his sleeve and slides down again.

“I took them!”

he says proudly, holding up his arm to show me his watch.

“It buzzed and I remembered.”

My throat tightens. I nod.

“Good job, baby.”

I should feel triumphant. This was the goal. I spent weeks building that routine with him, sitting side by side, explaining how his new heart and lungs work, how these meds keep them strong. I even color-coded his watch, helped him understand the numbers, explained the importance of consistency. At seven years old, Levi’s already had more hospital nights than most adults.

And now… he’s okay.

He’s keeping up with his sisters. He’s eating. Laughing. Running.

He’s okay.

But I don’t feel the relief I thought I would.

I just feel… numb.

Like the battle is over, and somehow, I’m still holding my sword.

“Mama!”

Jemma tugs on my shirt.

“Can we paint now? Please please please?”

“I wanna do the glitter slime,”

Iris adds, hopping.

“Can we have a snack first?”

Levi yells, opening the pantry, already dragging out a box of crackers.

I blink. My head feels too full. The kitchen’s a mess. The sink is overflowing. Kyle’s behind a shut door, probably still mad. There are dishes everywhere. Glitter on the floor. I haven’t eaten today. The laundry’s undone. And my mom is dead.

“I said…”

Jemma’s voice rises, insistent, and Iris starts stomping in rhythm.

Levi opens the crackers and they spill onto the ground.

“STOP!” I scream.

Everything stills.

Three small faces stare at me, wide-eyed, startled. Levi’s lip quivers. Iris grabs Jemma’s hand.

I cover my mouth, chest heaving.

“I’m… I’m sorry,”

I say, backing against the counter.

“I didn’t mean… just… please… just give me a minute.”

No one moves. They don’t know what to do with me like this. I don’t know what to do with me like this.

Levi slowly kneels and starts picking up the crackers, not saying anything. Jemma tries to help. Iris stands still, watching me with eyes too old for seven.

This is the part of motherhood they don’t put in the books. The part where love is not enough to keep you from breaking.

Where even joy feels like it’s too much to carry.