“Baby, just tell me what to pack,” I cut her off gently. It would be great if she did it, but then I’m going to feel like I’ve been benched even before I got a chance to play.
Also, we both need to adjust to this. I need to learn how to handle all this kid and house stuff, whileJayne needs to let go of the guilt she’s carrying over her head like the sword of Damocles, waiting for it to strike.
She has nothing to feel remorseful about because it’s evident that I’ve fucked up. Because every conversation—clearer now that my mind isn’t running on fumes—reveals the truth I failed to see.I dropped out of the rhythm of my family’s life, and the repairs ahead are going to require a long, delicate rehab.
By the time I get lunch ready, I’ve had a lesson about my children. Also, making lunches foractualchildren with opinions is harder than prepping for surgery.
“The fuck you mean she’s going through a round phase?” I ask when Jayne tells me that Mikaela wants her sandwich cut into a circle.
“She’s ten,” she replies, chuckling like that explains it.
“So…how did I do?” I ask after I’m done with the lunches and am filling Finn’s bottle with the vitamin water he insists on.
Jayne looks at the kitchen counter, obviously smothering a smile. “Looks like a crime scene.”
She’s not wrong. I have pretty much everything from the fridge out. And there’s strawberry jam on the counter that gives the whole image a dramatic CSI feel.
“I’ll get better.”
She goes on tiptoe and kisses me. “You already are.”
I kiss my wife and then take my kids to school.
Damn, but the drop-off line is long and…dumb. There has to be a better way to get your child to school.
“I’ll go straight to soccer practice. Can you pick me up at seven?” Finn reminds me.
“Yes, I can.” I have it on my calendar now, with two warning alarms set for one hour and thirty minutes before the appointment.
After I get home, I tackle the kitchen like it’s a patient on the table—every surface wiped down, every dish sterilized and put away, everything restored to order the way my OR demands it.
Then I wander through the house, looking for the next thing to fix. There isn’t much. Jayne already did the laundry; the hampers are practically empty. The place hums with the quiet efficiency she’s always kept going, invisible until now.
I check my watch.
Six hours until Mikaela’s pickup.
Six whole hours.
What the hell am I supposed to do with myself?
So, I reorganize the pantry—alphabetizing the spices, tossing the expired junk, and stacking the canned goods like I’m prepping for inventory. I scrub the sink until the steel gleams.
Then I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop and draft a weekly menu—meals, snacks, lunchbox ideas. That leads to a grocery list, color-coded and categorized like it’s some kind of surgical checklist.
When I’m done, I sit back and stare at what I’ve created.
Accomplishment spreads through me—unexpected,almostembarrassing.
I go online and order the groceries, which will be delivered in a few hours.
That evening, without a single fuck-up, we sit down to dinner—one I cooked. The pride that surges through me is ridiculous.
It’s pasta and meat sauce, not molecular gastronomy, but Finn goes back for seconds, Mikaela says, “Daddy, you should cook every night,” and Jayne gives me a warm smile that settles in the center of my chest like a heartbeat finally syncing back into rhythm.
No surgery has ever felt better.
I wish—God, how I wish—I’d had more evenings like this.
