Page 5 of October: The Odd Ones, Stories of Love and Grovel

He came home late. The door creaked softly open, and I didn't even turn my head. I kept the lights dim in our bedroom, half because the kids were asleep down the hall, half because I didn't want him to see the way my eyes still looked a little puffy.

He didn't say anything at first. Just quietly changed out of his work clothes, the soft rustle of fabric filling the silence between us. Then he slipped into bed beside me like nothing had fractured. Like I wasn't lying here, wide awake in a place where love used to feel simple.

He kissed the top of my head. Gently. Almost shyly.

"I'm sorry,"

he murmured into my hair. His voice was hoarse, like he hadn't spoken in hours.

"I hate when you're mad at me. You're barely ever mad... so when you are, I—I don't know what to say. I'm not good with words, but I'm trying."

I stayed still. Let him speak. Let him explain himself in that soft, tired tone that used to melt me and now only made something ache deeper.

"I'm working on this new project,"

he continued, his forehead pressing lightly against mine.

"Dad made me head of it, and... God, he's breathing down my neck. He expects so much—more than I know how to give sometimes. I'm overwhelmed, October. Exhausted. And I know that's not fair to you."

He exhaled, hand finding mine under the blanket. I didn't move.

"But I need you. You're my peace. When everything's crashing, when I'm drowning in numbers and expectations and that constant pressure—you are the one thing that makes me feel like I'm still okay."

There was a pause. He shifted, trying to see my face, but I kept looking at the ceiling.

"You're a good wife,"

he said quietly.

"A good mother. Don't let your thoughts tell you otherwise. I am sorry and I love you...Please."

I closed my eyes. His words hung between us like a thread, fragile and fraying

"Sure, whatever,"

I whispered.

"Goodnight, Thomas."

I turned away from him, and he didn't try to pull me closer.

The following morning was a blur of movement—the usual chaos of getting everyone ready: breakfast half-eaten, mismatched socks, backpacks slung over small shoulders. But beneath the routine, there was something heavier in the air. A silence that clung to the walls like smoke after a fire. Lingering. Suffocating. I moved through it like I was made of glass. Still functioning, still moving—but fragile. And hollow.

I didn't say much to Thomas. Just the bare minimum.

"Pass the cereal."

"Can you hand me her shoes?"

"We're running late."

My voice was calm. Even. But it wasn't warm.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

I saw it in the way his eyes lingered on me just a second too long.

The way his brow pulled ever so slightly, like he was trying to piece together the difference.

I've always been soft with him.

Gentle. Eager to smooth things over, to reach for his hand before he ever had to ask.

But not today.

Today, I didn't touch him.

Today, I didn't smile.

He could feel it, me pulling away, inch by inch, but he didn't say a word.

Maybe he didn't know how.

Maybe he never did.

Maybe he was waiting for me to cave, to offer peace like I always have, even when I'm the one bleeding.

The thing is, I used to think silence was a punishment. But today, it was armor.

There was a numbness settling over me, a cold clarity that felt foreign and familiar all at once.

Like standing outside my body and watching a version of myself I didn't quite recognize anymore.

The version who loved him so fiercely it burned.

Who bent and folded and softened until she was barely herself.

Now? Now, I was just...

quiet because I had nothing left to give.

Not to him, and he felt it.

Only Alice and Lola broke through the tension, giggling and humming like nothing was wrong.

Like children always do, untouched by the weight adults carry in silence.

Jimmy didn't say much either, just busied himself with his bag and homework, staying in his own bubble.

I hated it.

Hated how I could already feel the split in the air, like our family had fractured and no one wanted to name it.

For once, we left before Thomas.

I gathered the girls, called out for Jimmy, and we stepped out the door while he stood in the hallway, looking like he wanted to say something but couldn't quite find the words.

I didn't give him the chance.

We just left.

I spent the morning with Lola bundled against my chest, her tiny hand clinging to my shirt like I was the only world she trusted.

We wandered through the park, just the two of us, under a soft sky that didn't match the storm inside me.

I watched her eyes flutter at the sunlight slipping through trees, her chubby legs kicking out happily as we passed by dogs and joggers.

I bought her a little hat at the market, something pink with floppy ears, just to see her smile. I needed that smile more than I could admit.

We walked aimlessly, the stroller wheels crunching along the path, my mind spinning faster than they ever could.

I was trying to outrun the silence in my house.

The way Jimmy barely looked at me anymore.

The way Alice asked about her father like he was a guest we were waiting on. The way I kept shrinking every time Thomas apologized, only to vanish again.

But something was different this time.

Maybe it was Jimmy's words last night, echoing in every quiet corner of me.

Or maybe it was the way Lola's little laugh filled the air like hope.

I wasn't going to be the woman who just endured anymore. I was tired of being understanding. Tired of making excuses. Tired of telling myself it wasn't that bad. It was that bad.

It is.

I looked at Lola's face—innocent, trusting, untouched by the disappointments of this world—and I made a decision.

Not just for me.

But for them.

For all of them. I needed to stand up. If not now, then when? If I kept waiting, they'd grow up thinking this was what love looked like. Quiet resentment, uneven efforts, affection that came in breadcrumbs.

I started planning. I reached out to Beth, his sister. She immediately sent me a text:

"Hey. Here's that lawyer I mentioned. We went to school together. You can trust him. Name's Jordan Sayre. He's expecting you at 3."

My fingers hovered over the screen, trembling. My heart beat like I was about to jump out of a plane—scared, breathless, but weirdly... ready.

I typed back slowly, every letter a confirmation.

"Thank you. I'm going."

Later, after I picked up the kids from school—Jimmy still quiet, Alice humming a tune, Lola asleep in her seat—we pulled into Thomas's parents' long, graveled driveway.

It was bigger than necessary, like everything else they owned.

Elegant.

Imposing. Designed to impress. But as I stepped out of the car and looked up at the house that had once made me feel safe, I realized I didn't want any of it if it meant staying invisible.

His mother met us on the front steps with a soft smile and arms wide open.

"Come in, darlings. Come in, come in."

The kids got inside. I handed off Lola and watched her melt into Grandma's chest like she belonged there. That part was easy. The rest... not so much.

His father was in his usual chair, the kind with buttons so deep it looked like it might swallow him whole. He didn't even look up from his paper. Just muttered.

"Don't let them ruin anything in the house. I had the floors done."

"Of course, dear,"

his wife replied dutifully, her voice sugarcoated with grace. Reverent, almost. Like years of sharp silences and backhanded remarks hadn't dulled her spirit. Like being dismissed in public and criticized in private hadn't changed the way she adored him.

Once, I watched him insult her soup at a dinner party. Called it bland an.

"as forgettable as the company,"

while guests tried not to squirm. She just smiled, offered seconds. Another time, I overheard him tell a colleague.

"My wife didn't build this life. I did. She just occupies it,"

and his wife? She laughed like he'd just paid her a compliment.

But the worst was the way he'd turn on charm for other women, servers, neighbors, random strangers, while giving her nothing but a pat on the back and a thank-you like she was staff.

Rumors swirled.

Affairs, probably.

No one ever confirmed them, but no one was surprised either.

He never raised his voice.

Never hit her.

No, he just...

erased her.

Slowly.

Lovingly.

Like it was a kindness.

Still, she spoke of him like he was a man worth admiring.

Like she'd chosen him every day, even when he hadn't chosen her back.

I used to pity her. Now, I saw myself in her. I swore, as I stood there in her kitchen, that I wouldn't become the same gentle ghost. I turned and left.

The law office was brighter than I expected.

Lemon-scented and sunlit, not cold and metallic like I feared.

Jordan Sayre looked nothing like a courtroom shark—just a man in a plaid shirt and neat beard who smiled as I walked in.

"You must be October,"

he said, standing to greet me.

"Beth said you were coming. I'm really glad you did."

He didn't offer the stiff chair across from the desk. He motioned to the couch instead.

"Sit where it's soft. You look like you've had a day."

I almost laughed. Almost.

"I don't even know where to start,"

I said, voice raw.

"You don't have to,"

he said.

"That's my job. Just tell me what's going on, and we'll figure it out from there."

So I told him. About Thomas. The distance. The cash envelope for my birthday. The nights he stayed late. Laura, his coworker. The quiet, awful feeling that I wasn't a person to him anymore—just an obligation. A placeholder.

Jordan listened the whole time. No notes. No interruptions. Just that same steady gaze. When I finally went quiet, he nodded.

"Okay. First of all, I'm sorry. What you're describing... it's real and it's common. But that doesn't make it okay."

Then he added.

"Beth in fact told me you're strong. Just that sometimes... you forget."

I didn't respond. Because he wasn't wrong. I had forgotten. Somewhere between lullabies and long silences, between carefully folded laundry and carefully folded versions of myself—I had lost track of what I was capable of.

"So let's get you a plan,"

he continued, opening a notepad like it was a doorway.

"and the first rule? No emotional reactions. Not yet. Your husband is powerful. Whether you like it or not, he has influence. He can make this process brutal. So we stay methodical. Quiet. Strategic."

I nodded once, even though my stomach turned.

"One step at a time," he said.

He wrote as he spoke, his pen moving steadily. I leaned forward, my eyes scanning every word like it held the key to my freedom.

"First, you need your own bank account,"

he said.

"Just in your name. Open it quietly. Start moving small amounts of money—anything you can manage. Grocery cash, leftover change. This isn't about pride. It's about preparation."

I swallowed hard and nodded again.

"Second,"

he continued.

"start saving. Even if it's coins from the sofa cushions. Even if it's five bucks stashed in your coat pocket. Anything helps. You're building something here—security. Even better, if you can get a job, do it"

Okay. I could do that. I had to.

"Third,"

he said, looking up at me.

"therapy. For you, first. Eventually, the kids. Even if this marriage can be repaired—which, sometimes, it can—you need someone in your corner. If it can't be, you'll need the tools to walk away whole."

I felt my chest tighten, but I didn't let the tears fall. Not here. Not now. I wasn't here to cry—I was here to act.

"Fourth... we don't say the word divorce. Not yet. Not until you have what you need in place. Especially financially. Do you have any assets in your name?"

"Just the car,"

I whispered.

He nodded slowly, like he'd already known.

"Then that's our first move. Start with what's in your name. If you can get him to sign something else over, even better."

He leaned forward, voice low and calm, like he was talking someone off a ledge.

"But this is a long game. Eventually, you'll want something solid. A lease. A deed. Proof that something in this life belongs to you."

His eyes darkened.

"If he's hiding money, we'll find it. If he's cheating—don't confront him. Don't scream. We don't make noise."

He paused, his voice dropping to a razor-sharp whisper.

"We gather. Quietly. Patiently. And when the time is right... we take everything."

There was a pause, and then I breathed out. Really breathed. For the first time in what felt like days.

"You don't have to do everything today,"

Jordan said.

"But you've already done the hardest part. You showed up and you told someone."

I looked down at the paper he'd handed me. His handwriting was clean, direct. Just a list—but somehow it felt like armor.

"I can do this,"

I said softly, half to myself, half to the version of me I was trying to find again.

Jordan smiled like he already knew.

"You already are,"

and for once, I believed it.