Chapter 11
Karan
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, and Rachel’s face hardens in response. Part of me wants to reach out, to grab her shoulders and make her understand. But the rest of me is too tired, too wrung out to try.
Mom and Dad were so proud of me when I got this job. The memory of Dad’s face lighting up, of Mom hugging me tight—it’s seared into my brain. After years of disappointment, of subtle comments about wasting my degree on “children's entertainment,” I finally did something right in their eyes.
I can’t let them down.
Not again.
There’s got to be a way… A way to keep their pride in me and give my wife what she needs. I love her too much to consider the alternative.
“Really?” Rachel crosses her arms, the crack in her voice splitting my heart in two. “Then explain it to me. Help me understand why you’d choose to be miserable.”
“I'm no—”
The lie dies in my throat. Because she’s right.
I am miserable.
But I have to hope that it’s going to improve as I get used to this. It has to.
Because how do you begin to separate from something so deeply ingrained in yourself? Something that’s been repeated so many times to you, shown by example, shoved down your throat, so much so that it becomes an inescapable part of who you are?
I don’t think I can.
The sound of the twins laughing drifts in from the living room, punctuated by Océane's gentle voice. The normalcy of it punches me in the gut.
When was the last time I made my sons laugh like that?
“And you’re not the only one who’s miserable,” Rachel continues. “You know I had to get the boys early from school again today? And that they called you first?”
“I must have been in a meeting,” I say before I can think.
The truth is, the knowledge that the boys are struggling tastes bitter in my mouth. And knowing that I put it all on her again—it’s got nausea crawling up my ribcage.
“You know what?” Rachel's shoulders slump. “Never mind. I can’t do this right now.”
She turns away from me. Something inside me fractures. My wife—my anchor, my home, my everything—feels like she’s on another planet. The distance between us stretches wider with each passing day, and I don't know how to bridge it anymore.
I keep saying the wrong thing.
Fuck, I’m too tired to think straight.
My gaze sticks to her as she walks away, her small frame rigid with tension. All I want is to call her back. To tell her that I’m drowning. That every time my boss yells at me, every time I miss bedtime with the boys, every time I see the disappointment in her eyes, I die a little inside.
Instead, the words stay locked in my throat.
“Daddy!” Corey's voice breaks through my spiral of thoughts. “Can you read us a story?”
I look over to find both boys peering around the kitchen doorway, their matching dark eyes hopeful. Behind them, Océane gives me an apologetic look.
“I tried to get them ready for bed,” she says softly, “but they insisted on waiting for you.”
Something warm blooms in my chest, thawing the edges of the cold weight of my argument with Rachel.
My sons still want me. Still need me.
“Of course I’ll read you a story.” I force a smile onto my face. “Go brush your teeth and pick out a book. I’ll be right there.”
They scamper off with pent up excitement. Océane lingers for a moment, her eyes darting between me and the direction Rachel disappeared to.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” she says. “With the juice, I mean. I didn’t mean to make you late.”
“It’s fine. Really. Please don’t worry about it.”
And I do mean that.
Océane’s eyes shift downward. “I didn’t want to cause a fight.”
I sigh heavily and rub Océane’s shoulder. “You didn’t. It was all me.”
My burden to bear.
I head to the boys’ room, where they’re already in their pajamas and arguing over which book to read. The familiar sight of their matching Star Wars sheets and the glow-in-the-dark stars on their ceiling grounds me somewhat.
The boys end up picking a Bluey book. They settle into their beds, and I sit on the floor between them. As I read, I try to do the voices like I used to, to bring the story alive the way they’ve always loved.
The boys giggle at my attempts, and for a moment, I feel like myself again. Like the father I want to be.
But even as I read, I can feel tomorrow’s meetings looming over me. I hear my boss's voice in my head, listing all the to-dos I have for this week’s sprint.
Like every sprint, there’s just too much, but we have to sustain this growth, or they’ll find someone to replace me who’s willing to do it.
I finish the story and kiss both boys goodnight. Before I leave their side, I linger a moment longer than usual, giving each of my sons a long, drawn-out hug. Their sleepy “Good night, Daddy” echoes in my ears as I shut their door, leaving it open just a crack—the way they like it.
The shower calls to me, promising to wash away some of this day’s weight. Under the hot spray, I try to sort through the mess in my head. Rachel’s words keep playing on repeat:
“Quit that stupid job that’s slowly killing you.”
She doesn’t understand. She can’t. Not when she loves what she does, when she’s respected in her field. Not when she had the strength to walk away from toxic family relationships.
I once had the strength to do what I wanted, but those were different times, and that was a different me. Before our lives were painted over with the lingering fear of cancer’s fatal hands, or the sobering reality of everything it will take to secure my sons’ futures.
Rachel does so much. Despite Will being the oldest, she’s the one who shoulders the most responsibility—it’s why Océane is here—but she’s always taken on this burden by choice.
She hasn’t been forced under pressure by a father like mine to be the perfect man.
The provider.
The brave, stoic pillar who doesn’t need anyone.
When I finally emerge from the bathroom, the condo is quiet. Too quiet. I peek into the guest room. Océane is already asleep, curled up in a tight ball under her blankets.
And across from the hallway…
The master bedroom is dark and empty.
I wander toward the living room, my brow furrowed, and finally find Rachel on the couch. She’s curled up on her side with two thick blankets pulled up to her chin. She’s not asleep. I can tell by her less than steady breathing. But she’s pretending to be.
The sight of her choosing to sleep here instead of our bed hurts as much as a physical blow to my gut.
For a moment, I stand in place, wondering if I should try to talk to her.
To explain how, for once in my life, the voices in my head calling me a failure, a terrible son, finally went quiet when I saw the pride shine in Dad’s eyes the moment I told him about the job offer.
To share how I can’t just shoot down Mom, especially because we never know if the cancer is going to come raging back.
I wonder if I should tell her how my knees weaken and my chest burns at the terror of disappointing anyone—my parents, my boss, our boys.
Her.
But I’m so tired. Of everything.
So I turn away and head to our bedroom alone. The bed is massive without her in it.
I grab her pillow and hold it close, breathing in the lingering scent of her strawberry shampoo.
Fourteen years together, and this is the first time we’ve gone to bed angry like this. The first time she’s chosen to sleep somewhere else.