Chapter Fifteen
Wendy
November
Taking deep breaths, I try to gather myself as much as I can, not wanting to fall apart in front of my sons.
There's something else happening inside of me, something quieter, but no less powerful.
A lightness creeps in—a fragile relief that I cling to. It feels a lot better than the misery and disappointment of the past year.
I need to make sure my boys are okay.
From the look on my oldest's face, I think he put together the pieces, or at least has started to.
Atlas has a long, uphill battle back to his sons. I will help, however I can. I won't badmouth their father, but I won't make excuses for him either.
Atlas will have to want to change, and more importantly, he will have to actually be present to make those changes.
All I can do is support him as much as I can and be there to catch my sons if he breaks their hearts.
Gently knocking on Liam's door, I promise myself that I can collapse in two hours—maybe three—that's all I have to make it through.
Just a couple of hours.
The boys are sprawled across Liam's bean bags in front of his television, Nintendo Switch controllers clutched in their hands.
Noah giggles loudly as they race through Mario Kart, completely absorbed. Liam glances over at me with a concerned look, but I just give him a reassuring smile.
Noah's sufficiently distracted with his race, and Liam pulls his attention back to the game while I sit quietly on Liam's neatly made bed.
The picture on his bedside table catches my eye. In it, Liam is five, smiling brightly from his daddy's shoulders, while baby Noah is cradled in my arms. Atlas has one hand on Liam to steady him, the other wrapped around us as we beam at the camera.
There are smudges on the glass, like Liam's been touching it with his fingers, and most of the smudges are over Atlas' face.
The memories from that photo wash over me like a warm hug.
Diane and Emmett rented a huge cabin in the mountains for the week. Silas and Carrie even came too, with Molly and Jem.
I can still hear Molly and Liam running around the cabin together, giggling and shrieking with laughter, while two-year-old Jem toddled after them, babbling all her new words.
Noah was eight months old, and Jem was fascinated with the color of his hair—the same shade as mine—and kept petting it gently while saying, "red."
The grandparents watched the kids one night, giving the four of us a break, and we went into town together. We felt like teenagers on a double date, holding hands, stealing kisses, briefly living in a world without responsibility or diapers.
Carrie and I dressed up, though I remember feeling self-conscious because I hadn't lost all the weight from my pregnancy with Noah, tugging at the tight top I was in.
Carrie assured me that I looked amazing and admitted to me that she still hadn't shed the remaining ten pounds she still had from Jem. She admitted, with a saucy smile, that Silas didn't want her to, anyway.
That seemed to be a Durant thing, because when I walked downstairs to my waiting husband, he looked very hungry for me, his eyes dark and intense in a way that made my heart flutter.
"You look so damn beautiful, baby," he murmured, kissing me sweetly when we climbed in his truck.
And I felt beautiful. Atlas always made me feel beautiful, even when I was unshowered, in sweatpants and a milk-stained t-shirt, with an infant clinging to me.
He looked at me like he couldn't believe I was real.
We went to the bar, which was packed with locals and tourists. Carrie and I danced while our men stayed at the bar watching whatever game was on TV, until we dragged them to dance with us.
Someone put Sam Cooke on the jukebox, Atlas pulled me close as we slow-danced, hands and eyes roaming all over my body, and he kissed me.
On the ride back to the cabin, back to my babies, with my husband's hand in mine, I remember thinking how perfect my life was.
"Mama, wanna play?"
Noah's sweet voice pulls me out of the memory, and I turn to see him holding his controller out to me, his face hopeful.
Liam is looking at me too, his brows furrowed with concern. The reminder of why I came up here in the first place hits me, especially when I hear footsteps outside the door, walking back and forth down the hallway.
"No, thank you, baby," I say softly, smiling as I take a steadying breath. "But can I talk to you both really quick? You can go back to playing after."
Noah's head tilts, his little brow knitting together, but he nods. Liam takes the controller from him and pauses the game, muting the television so I don't have to tell my sons their father and I are breaking up while the Mario Kart theme plays cheerfully in the background.
I pat the bed next to me. Noah plops down on one side while Liam comes to the other and I wrap my arms around both of my boys.
Noah cuddles into my side instantly, like he always does, and Liam doesn't even resist with any teenage annoyance.
"So, I know you were a little surprised when you saw your daddy here, right?" I ask Noah, who nods his head, looking a little uncertain now. Liam's jaw clenches. "Daddy is packing up his things. He's going to be living at Pop and Mom-Moms now."
Noah's eyes narrow slightly, head tilted like he's processing my words. Liam's expression remains carefully neutral, but the flicker of relief I see there hurts more than anything else.
Relief at his dad not being here anymore, relief at not living with a shadow haunting the house. I squeeze his shoulder, and the corners of his mouth tilt upward in a small smile meant just for me.
"You guys will be spending the weekends there," I say, filling the heavy silence. "Does that sound okay?"
"With him?" Noah asks, his voice a whine.
"Do we have to?" Liam demands at the same time, his question making me wince.
"Yes," I answer both of them with a sigh, choosing my words carefully. "I know your father has been... gone lately. But that's going to change. You'll be spending more time with him now."
"Why?" Noah asks, his voice small.
"Yeah," Liam cuts in sharply, "because he hasn't been around, so why now? We've been doing just fine without him."
The anger in Liam's voice makes my mom-hackles rise. I knew he was angry; Trey had told me that. I didn't truly understand how much resentment had built up.
It makes me think of my own mother, the resentment I had built toward her, and how sour it tasted. I had to let that go. Liam will have to one day as well.
"Because..." I start, my voice cracking slightly, before I try again. "Because he needs to be. He wants to be. He's your father. I know he's messed up this past year—"
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's going to 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 Atlas hurts. 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.
He's spent the last year shoving his children and me away, and then when I tell him to leave, he's begging to stay.
Atlas didn't give me any explanation, but when I started crying, he gave me a flicker of hope.
He held me. He told me he loves me.
And God, I almost broke there. I almost said I would forget about the separation, I almost said I would forget it all, just because he held me.
I was starving, and he tossed me a meal. But I knew it would be fleeting, one meal, not enough to sustain me forever.
Most importantly, not enough for my sons.
But he can't stay, I won't let him. Not without answers. Not without change.
Say I let him stay, say I give him another chance, and then he does the same thing to us again. I make my sons hurt even more than they already are. I fail as a mother for not protecting them.
I've already failed so much by trying to keep the peace, keep our routine, keep in denial about my husband and our marriage.
Atlas looks at me for a long moment, like he wants to say something.
Please, just say something. Please, please, please...
"Let's go!" Emmett barks at him, and Atlas' face folds in on itself.
His eyes shut, and he sighs, glancing back up to me before turning and closing our front door with a soft click.
...
Three hours later, my tears are dry, my boys are asleep, and I'm freshly showered.
I called it at eleven and told them it was time for bed. They trudged to their bathroom, both frequently yawning as they brushed their teeth and washed their faces.
Liam went to his room to clean up while I went to Noah's to tuck him into bed. He was out before his head hit the pillow, so I tucked his green blankets around him and kissed his head.
Liam fell asleep on top of his covers, sprawled like a starfish, and I had to stifle my laugh. I grabbed a throw blanket from his bean bag and laid it over him before turning off his lamp and kissing his head.
When I walked into my bedroom, I pointedly ignored how empty our walk-in closet is. Atlas left some of his things, but Diane texted me that she would stop by later to pick them up.
I said I'd box them up for her tomorrow.
Instead of dwelling on the emptiness, I put on my most comfortable pajamas, and slid between the sheets.
It's almost too quiet, even with the ceiling fan going. I won't be hearing Atlas' deep breaths or snores, any of his grumbly bear noises.
I won't feel him pull me closer in the night, his arm heavy and warm around my waist.
I won't feel him wake me up with his head between my legs.
I won't have any of that again.
So, I mourn. I cry, silently, hot tears that fall to my pillow.
And it feels like more relief to just let it out.
Afterwards, I replay the words from our conversation.
He's not cheating on me. I had thought I didn't care. I thought that I was too checked out and focused on the future to care, but the relief and even the burst of anger that flooded me when he assured me that he wasn't cheating made me dizzy.
Anger because then what the fuck was it then?
All I'm left with are more questions.
But I think I'm done seeking answers; at this point, I have too much to think about and focus on.
Atlas and I are separated. We're not together anymore, bound only by the law and two adorable boys who deserve better than the version of us we became this last year.
And I have plans for my life.
First, get through these next twelve months, day by day, second by second.
Secondly, accumulate enough money from the job and save up spousal support. Child support goes right to the boys, new paints for Noah, basketball shoes for Liam. Whatever they need to support their interests.
Third, get the boys into therapy. Family therapy. Art therapy. Music therapy. Anything they need. I need to try to unpack what we messed up as parents. This will be good for us; we will heal together.
Finally, and most importantly, find Wendy again.
Go dancing with Taylor. Crochet a blanket. Go on a road trip to the beach by myself. Take hot bubble baths. Buy some new clothes. Treat myself without guilt. Spend time with my sons.
Live.