Océane’s eyes shift downward. “I didn’t want to cause a fight.”
I sigh heavily and rub Océane’s shoulder. “You didn’t. It was all me.”
My burden to bear.
I head to the boys’ room, where they’re already in their pajamas and arguing over which book to read. The familiar sight of their matching Star Wars sheets and the glow-in-the-dark stars on their ceiling grounds me somewhat.
The boys end up picking a Bluey book. They settle into their beds, and I sit on the floor between them. As I read, I try to do the voices like I used to, to bring the story alive the way they’ve always loved.
The boys giggle at my attempts, and for a moment, I feel like myself again. Like the father I want to be.
But even as I read, I can feel tomorrow’s meetings looming over me. I hear my boss's voice in my head, listing all the to-dos I have for this week’s sprint.
Like every sprint, there’s just too much, but we have to sustain this growth, or they’ll find someone to replace me who’s willing to do it.
I finish the story and kiss both boys goodnight. Before I leave their side, I linger a moment longer than usual, giving each of my sons a long, drawn-out hug. Their sleepy “Good night, Daddy” echoes in my ears as I shut their door, leaving it open just a crack—the way they like it.
The shower calls to me, promising to wash away some of this day’s weight. Under the hot spray, I try to sort through the mess in my head. Rachel’s words keep playing on repeat:
“Quit that stupid job that’s slowly killing you.”
She doesn’t understand. She can’t. Not when she loves what she does, when she’s respected in her field. Not when she had the strength to walk away from toxic family relationships.
I once had the strength to do what I wanted, but those were different times, and that was a different me. Before our lives were painted over with the lingering fear of cancer’s fatal hands, or the sobering reality of everything it will take to secure my sons’ futures.
Rachel does so much. Despite Will being the oldest, she’s the one who shoulders the most responsibility—it’s why Océane is here—but she’s always taken on this burden by choice.
She hasn’t been forced under pressure by a father like mine to be the perfect man.
The provider.
The brave, stoic pillar who doesn’t need anyone.
When I finally emerge from the bathroom, the condo is quiet. Too quiet. I peek into the guest room. Océane is already asleep, curled up in a tight ball under her blankets.
And across from the hallway…
The master bedroom is dark and empty.
I wander toward the living room, my brow furrowed, and finally find Rachel on the couch. She’s curled up on her side with two thick blankets pulled up to her chin. She’s not asleep. I can tell by her less than steady breathing. But she’s pretending to be.
The sight of her choosing to sleep here instead of our bed hurts as much as a physical blow to my gut.
For a moment, I stand in place, wondering if I should try to talk to her. To explain how, for once in my life, the voices in my head calling me a failure, a terrible son, finally went quiet when I saw the pride shine in Dad’s eyes the moment I told him about the job offer. To share how I can’t just shoot down Mom, especially because we never know if the cancer is going to come raging back.
I wonder if I should tell her how my knees weaken and my chest burns at the terror of disappointing anyone—my parents, my boss, our boys.
Her.
But I’m so tired. Of everything.
So I turn away and head to our bedroom alone. The bed is massive without her in it.
I grab her pillow and hold it close, breathing in the lingering scent of her strawberry shampoo.
Fourteen years together, and this is the first time we’ve gone to bed angry like this. The first time she’s chosen to sleep somewhere else.
Chapter 12
