Liam snorts, and Noah's eyes go a little sad, not fully understanding his hurt, but hurting anyway.
"But he wants to make things better," I say softly. "He'sgoingto make things better. Okay?"
"If you say so," Liam shrugs, while Noah looks thoughtful.
"Will we still be living here?"
I nod, "During the week, yes."
"Will I still be able to go to art class?"
"Either me or your daddy will take you, yes."
"And will you still pick me up from school?"
"Of course, baby."
"Are you happy, Mama?" Noah asks me—the one question I'm not able to answer easily.
Am I happy?
I have my sons. I have this house. I have my health. I have a job. I have my family. I have my friends.
I think that outweighs all of the loss in my life—my husband and my comfortable routine.
God, the loss of Atlashurts. I don't even think I've begun to even crack the surface of how much I'm going to grieve our marriage. I think it always will hurt, some persistent lingering ache in my chest, especially as I hear his heavy footsteps thud down the stairs.
But as I squeeze my sons to me, I don't feel alone.
"I have you," I press a kiss to Noah's head, and then one to Liam's. "And I have you. I'm happy."
"Okay," Noah says, and Liam nods, smiling at me. "Can I play another game now?"
I smirk. “Go kick some ass," I say, making both of my boys' eyes widen before they break into loud laughter.
Liam reaches over and ruffles his brother's hair while Noah jumps up and grabs his controller. Liam lingers next to me for a moment longer, and when I look at him in question, he wraps his arms around me.
"I love you, Mama," he whispers.
I squeeze my eyes closed to keep the tears at bay. This has been one of the most emotionally draining days of my life, and I am so deeply thankful—for my in-laws, for my friends, and most of all, for my sons.
"I love you," I tell him, kissing his head. He smiles before plopping back onto his bean bag next to his brother, already setting up their next game.
It's Saturday tomorrow, and I'm off from Mabel's until Sunday. I already told her what was going on and why I needed Friday and Saturday off, and she gave it to me with no problem.
The boys' bedtime is usually ten on the weekends, but I'm going to let them stay up a little later tonight—especially to make sure Atlas is gone.
When I walk out the door, I hear them downstairs. Looking over the banister to the foyer, I see Diane's back disappearing out the door, Emmett carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder, and he says something to Atlas, who nods.
Atlas has two bags: one on his shoulder and another in his hand. The sight is a kick to the throat, making it that more real.
My husband is leaving our house.
As if sensing me, Atlas turns his head and meets my eyes. His dark eyes are bloodshot, his brow furrowed, his jaw clenched like he's desperately trying to hold the stone mask in place.
His expression flickers, something bleeding through, but it doesn't linger long enough for me to read it—guilt, anger, sorrow, some devastating combination of all three. I don't know, but I've never seen it on my husband's face before.
His actions and his words were so goddamn confusing during our talk, or whatever the hell that was down there.
