I've never felt more alone than I have now as the ferry cuts through the dark waters of the Cabot Strait.
The metal railing is cold under my hands as I lean against it, watching the December sun sink toward the horizon. The wind whips my hair around my face, carrying the sharp scent of salt and diesel. A few other passengers brave the cold on the deck, but they keep their distance, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Which is probably for the best, because right now, my thoughts are ugly things.
They spew out of me like poison, infecting every thought with decay.
I imagine Karan sitting in his ergonomic chair at the office, surrounded by his three monitors, trying to fix whatever crisis emerged this time, and I want nothing more than to wring his neck.
To let the poison spill out of me and into him.
Is he even thinking about us? Does he care?
Probably not. He's probably too focused on making his boss happy.
On being the good employee. The perfect son.
When did that become more important than being a good husband and father?
The deck vibrates beneath my feet as the engines push us further from Nova Scotia. I’d been dreading this crossing even before Karan bailed. Seventeen hours is a long time to be trapped on a boat with two energetic five-year-olds.
But now, with Martine’s constant hovering and Surinder’s disapproving looks every time I try to set a boundary with the boys, it feels like an eternity.
“You’re too strict with them,” Martine said earlier when I tried to limit their screen time. “They’re on vacation. Let them have fun!”
So now my sons are below deck, probably still glued to whatever shows Martine downloaded on her tablet. I was too tired to argue. Too tired to explain again why we try to limit screens or why we have routines, even on vacation.
A gust of wind hits me, and I pull my coat tighter around myself. The sun, uninhibited by the continents out in the open sea, continues its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. It would be beautiful if I weren’t so angry.
Angry at Karan for leaving.
Angry at his stupid boss.
Angry at his parents for enabling him.
Angry at myself for letting it get this far.
A family comes out onto the deck. It’s a mom, dad, and two kids around Cayce and Corey’s age. They’re all bundled up against the cold, laughing as they make their way to the railing about twenty feet from where I stand. The father lifts one ofthe children onto his shoulders and points at something in the distance while the mother takes pictures.
The sight makes my chest ache. That should be us. Karan should be here, letting the boys sit on his broad shoulders, making up stories about sea monsters lurking in the dark waters below. We should be making memories together.
Instead, I’m standing here alone while my in-laws do their best to erase every parenting boundary I’ve ever set.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. For a moment, hope flares—maybe it’s Karan, telling me he fixed the problem and he’s already on his way. But it’s only Sophie, checking in.
Sophie
How’s the crossing going so far? Not planning to throw yourself overboard yet?
I start typing, then delete it. Start again.
I haven’t told her that Karan went back to Montréal, and I don’t know how to get the words out. How do I explain that I’m hiding on the deck because I can’t fucking breathe?
I settle on keeping it simple.
It’s fine. And cold. And pretty.
I shove the phone back in my pocket before she can respond. Sophie means well, and she’s one of my favourite people on this Earth, but right now, her concern would just make me cry.
