“Yeah, Daddy, I want to go!” his brother adds.
Karan hugs our sons, kisses the top of their heads, and grins. “Yes. I’m all done. Let’s go on an adventure.”
I don’t get a chance to talk to Karan alone on the route to Twillingate. The boys stay awake the entire time, and we talk and laugh as a family, commenting on the stunning, snowy mountain landscapes and the glimpses of the ocean glittering beyond. All I can do is place a hand on his thigh to show him that I’m still here, fully with him, even if we can’t talk about it yet.
Twillingate is absolutely beautiful. I imagine that this charming coastal town with colourful homes, jagged cliffs, and winding roads is beautiful enough in the summer, but right now, in the heart of winter, it’s ethereal.
A blanket of white coats everything, reflecting the sun like diamonds, and through the snow, we can still see glimpses of colour on the houses and businesses strewn across the coast.
The boys positively freak out when we walk along the coast and spot a large iceberg floating in the sea. On the outside, Karan shares in their glee, even picking up both twins on his wide shoulders to give them a better view. We all squeal in joy when we see a seal bobbing up and down near the iceberg.
But it’s all superficial. Karan is putting on a show, as much as he tries to hide it from me. If the boys were a little older, I’m sure they’d be able to tell, too. As it stands, they’re too absorbed in our fun little adventure to notice the absent look in their father’s eyes.
Things start to shift on the route back toward the ferry. That superficial happiness and excitement he shared back in Twillingate slowly fades away and scatters to the wind like dust, leaving us with a quiet, withdrawn man.
Only when the boys are finally asleep in our ferry cabin can I finally talk to my husband alone.
Because we had to change the date of our tickets, we could only get a two-bed cabin, the others having all sold out already. Cayce and Corey both share the top bunk, and I’m now sliding up against Karan on the bottom bunk, trying to make the most of the tiny space.
I rest my head on his chest and close my eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. That’s what I focus on when I whisper the question I’ve been aching to ask.
“Karan, how did it go?”
He’s silent at first. His body tenses, only slightly.
“Not well,” he whispers back.
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. And I don’t ask further questions. The fact that he’s here, with us, pretty much paints the whole picture. He went back to set things straight and establish boundaries. It didn’t go well.
I don’t need my doctorate’s degree to figure out they refused to respect his boundaries.
Ourboundaries.
I wish I could bask in the pure joy that I should feel at the fact that he chose me. I wish it were that simple. But how can I do that when my husband is clearly in pain?
The next morning, as soon as the ferry lands and we’ve rolled out of the harbour, away from the exiting traffic, Karan parks the car on the side of the road.
“What are we doing?” I ask him, concern starting to choke me up.
“I’m setting things right,” he says without an ounce of emotion before getting out of the car.
The boys start asking questions.
“It’s all right,” I reassure them as I unclip my own seatbelt. “I’m going to go talk to him.”
I follow Karan out of the car; he’s pacing on the gravel, his phone to his ear.
“Yeah, hello?” he says when I assume the person on the other end of the line picks up. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m not coming back after the holidays. Consider this my final notice.”
My blood goes cold, while a tiny glimmer of hope dares to show itself in my chest. Is he doing what I think he’s doing?
He waits and listens, then turns to face me, our eyes meeting. This moment should be a celebration, but I’m only met with a deep abyss in his eyes.
“You can consider all that unpaid overtime I’ve done as the equivalent of a two week’s notice.”
Pause.
“No.”
