Chapter 22
Rhys
It’s strange to sleep in.
When you usually wake up at five every morning, and then you don’t have to until seven, it’s like being on vacation.
Yesterday, I put my ‘out of office' message on my hospital email, left my work phone in my drawer, said goodbye to my team, and came home to a celebratory dinner.
“I know you don’t feel like celebrating,” Jayne whispered. “But the kids wanted to do something.”
“I do feel like celebrating,” I replied. And I was telling the truth.
When we told the kids that I was going to be home for six months, Mikaela shrieked and gave me a hug, while Finn looked at me with suspicion. When I went to say goodnight, we talked.
“Is this for real?” he asked.
“Yeah, bud.”
“You’re doing this to help Mom?”
“I’m doing this to help myself.”
“And it’s real?”
“Yeah, son, it’s real.”
Did it hurt that my kid doesn’t believe me? Unbearably so. But I caused this. I am the reason my family thinks I’m some cross between an absentee and a benevolent father, and they’re never sure who they're going to get.
It also tells me that there is a lot of damage to fix, not just with Jayne but also with my children.
Especially Finn. I hope that spending more time with him, which includes picking him up, dropping him off, and getting him ready to get his driver’s license, will allow us to reconnect in a healthier way.
I don’t want my son to protect his mother from me. I want him to trust me.
“I can do lunches,” Jayne insists when I ask her to tell me what to do.
“No. I want to do it.”
She makes a face. “Rhys, you don’t have to do everything at home. We can—”
“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, while Jayne 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 for actual children 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, almost embarrassing.
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.
More moments where my kids talk over each other, where Mikaela’s feet swing beneath the table, where Jayne’s hand brushes mine when she reaches for the water pitcher.
More dinners where I’m not checking my phone or mentally running through post-op notes.
Afterward, Jayne shoos me away from the dishes—“Go sit. You’ve done enough”—but I stay anyway. We clean shoulder to shoulder. An unfamiliar domestic choreography, but it fits surprisingly well.
She opens the pantry and whistles. “Someone’s been busy.”
I nod sheepishly. “I think I’m trying to organize my way to competence.”
She watches me for a moment before asking, “How was your first day of being a civilian?”
I huff a laugh. “Terrifying and weirdly satisfying.”
Her mouth curves. “Welcome to my world.”
I look into her warm brown eyes and see no judgment there. I don’t know if she knows this, but she’s already forgiven my sins because this is who my wife is, the kindest fucking soul in the world. After years of being absent, I take a six-month sabbatical, and she’s ready to look past my screw ups.
“Thank you for welcoming me into it, baby.”
She flushes, and I kiss her. I’ve been doing a lot more of that, more than the perfunctory hello and goodbye. We are also hugging more, like we used to, and that dopamine shot is just as good as it’s purported to be.
It’s not just the big things I’ve missed. It’s the small things. Kissing my kids goodnight. Reading to Mikaela. Talking to Finn, asking him about his day. Pouring myself and Jayne a glass of wine as a nightcap.
Later, after the kids are in bed, I collapse on the couch, muscles heavy from a day that shouldn’t be this tiring but somehow is. Jayne curls up beside me, her head on my shoulder, a glass of port in hand.
I breathe her in.
I’m aware that I almost destroyed us because I was too distracted to see it slipping away.
“Thank you for today,” she murmurs.
“Thank you for all the years you’ve been doing this,” I whisper back. “And you did it while having a job. It should be easier for me since I’m only doing house stuff.”
I have no idea how she managed all this with work. I couldn’t do it. I know that I couldn’t because I tried and failed.
Her fingers curl around mine. “You’re doing fine, Rhys, don’t be too hard on yourself.”
“Trust me, baby, I’m not being hard enough,” I tell her sincerely. “I know I missed out on a lot, ignored your cries for help, but I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”
She sniffles, and I hold her close, tight.
I want every evening to end like this with us in peace with each other.
Whether it’s just sitting with a drink or watching a movie or mindless TV, I want it to be with her.
Even after my sabbatical ends, I have to make changes to my schedule because my life needs to be more than the hospital and my patients—otherwise, I will be living a half-life.
The epiphanies keep coming, and after a week as a stay-at-home dad and husband, I’m surprised by how little I miss the hospital.
A big part of it is that everything is a challenge, everything is a learning experience.
From packing snacks for Finn to watching Mikaela at gymnastics (she’s fantastic), I’m gaining knowledge and skills.
Housework is not heart surgery, but it does require time and consistency.
Taking care of children like this, being the one they come to first, is all about being flexible and available.
Being present.
I’m still not as competent as I’d like to be.
In an effort to feed my family more than just takeout sushi and Indian, or my pasta, I decide to roast a chicken and serve it with all the trimmings. Stuffing. Green beans, the way Jayne makes them with garlic and tomatoes. And my favorite, garlic mashed potatoes.
I have no idea how to cook all of this, but I have YouTube.
I make a shopping list and decide to go grocery shopping in person, not virtually. A blog I read mentioned that walking around the aisles is an inspiring experience for any amateur cook.
I’m halfway down the produce aisle, feeling proud of myself for finding everything I had on my shopping list, when someone calls out my name.
I turn to see Tory. She’s in jeans and a loose shirt, her hair pulled back, with a cart half-full. She’s the last person I want to see.
“Hey.” My voice is tight. I don’t want to talk to her.
“It’s my day off, so….” She waves a hand at her cart.
I nod.
“How’s…how’s the sabbatical?”
“Good,” I clip.
She eyes my shopping cart pointedly. “So…is this what you’re doing with your time off?”
I cock an eyebrow.
“Grocery shopping,” she adds with a sneer.
“And cooking.” I smile pleasantly at her. “And doing the laundry. I even changed the sheets today.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously.”
She shakes her head, displeasure written all over her face. “How can you, Rhys? You’re a renowned surgeon, and this is how you want to live your life?”
“How I live my life is my business,” I shoot back. We’re not in the workplace, I’m on leave, and I don’t need to be polite to her.
She tilts her head. “Is this really what you want to do?”
I roll my eyes. “Be a good father and husband?” I let out a soft laugh. “Yeah, this is what I want to do.”
“You’re making a mistake,” she hisses, her jaw clenched. “You’ll lose momentum. Dr. Lin will replace you.”
Done talking to her and entertaining myself, because seeing her gawk at my words was entertaining, I push my cart forward. “As you said, I’m a renowned surgeon, Tory. If Dr. Lin replaces me, several hospitals in Baltimore will snap me up.”
It’s an arrogant statement, but that doesn’t make it untrue. She knows that.
Her laugh is low, almost pitying. “Rhys, come on. You’re not built for domestic life. You’ll go crazy within a month.”
That’s the last straw.
I turn to her, meet her gaze squarely. “You might be right. But that’s between me and my wife. You don’t get a vote.”
Her mouth tightens. “I’m your friend.”
“No, Tory, you are not.”
I walk away from her, my cart rattling ahead, feeling pretty pleased with myself. I did good shopping, and I gave Tory Chehade the proverbial finger. Both resounding victories.