I slammed the door behind me so hard the windows rattled. Lola whimpered on my hip, and for once, I didn't soften. I didn't coo or whisper it was okay. Because it wasn't. But fury? Fury was something I could work with.
It got me through feeding her. Warming her little mashed peas while my hands shook. Nursing her while my mind sprinted in circles. Putting her down for her nap while I stared at the ceiling and counted all the ways I'd let myself disappear.
Late in the afternoon, I brought the kids from school. I carried Lola inside, her tiny fist clinging to my sweater, while Jimmy and Alice trailed behind me—Jimmy dragging his feet, Alice skipping like the world hadn't changed. I moved on instinct. Shoes off. Jackets hung. Bottles rinsed. Diapers checked. Rice in the cooker. I was on autopilot, doing what I'd always done: keeping the rhythm of a house whose heartbeat I couldn't hear anymore.
Thomas called. I stared at the screen until it stopped ringing. I didn't want to hear his voice—didn't want to pretend I wasn't angry, exhausted, or breaking. A few seconds later, a message lit up my phone:
Hi love, I'm sorry. I have a lot of work to finish before I come home. Don't wait up.
Hi love. That word used to mean something. I used to respond with warmth, with heart emojis and "Drive safe, can't wait to see you ❤" or "Don't work too hard, I made your favorite."
Tonight, I just typed: Ok.
No punctuation. No affection. Just a flat, mechanical reply.
Then I tossed the phone across the bed like it meant nothing. Maybe because it did.Let him say whatever he wants. I'm done pretending to care."Dinner in ten," I called over my shoulder, stirring lentils as steam curled around my face. I tried to sound cheerful. Balanced. Like something solid.
Jimmy hovered near the edge of the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe like he was too tall for his own bones. He was fourteen going on thirty, his eyes darker than they used to be. His silence pressed against the room like fog.
"Hey," I said gently, wiping my hands on a towel. "You okay?"
He shrugged.
"You were quiet all the way back."
Another shrug. This time, he looked past me, toward the hallway. Toward anywhere else.
I swallowed, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was bubbling just under the surface. I tried again. "Want to talk?"
"Nope."
My heart pinched a little, but I nodded and kept setting the table. Alice climbed into her seat, swinging her legs, beaming at the sight of mashed potatoes. "Is Daddy coming home tonight?" she asked suddenly, fork clutched in her tiny hand.
I smiled softly, brushing a hand through her curls. "He's working late, sweetheart. He said he'll be home after you're in bed."
Jimmy snorted. Just loud enough. Just pointed enough.
I glanced at him, my fork pausing mid-air. "What?"
He didn't look up. "Nothing."
"Jimmy."
He leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "I said nothing."
Alice went back to poking her peas. I set my fork down and turned to him. "I know you're upset. But your dad—he's working. He's just busy. He works hard to provide for us."
Jimmy's laugh was short, bitter. He finally looked at me, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were too old for fourteen. "Busy?" he echoed, like the word offended him. "He's not busy, Mom. He just doesn't care."

YOU ARE READING
October, The Odd Ones
RomanceOctober I loved him with everything I had. From the moment I was a teenager scribbling his name in my notebooks, to the nights I waited up for him with cold dinners and colder silences. He was my first everything-my husband, the father of my childre...