Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 96284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Dude. This was posted ten minutes ago on Sandra’s Insta, and now it’s deleted.
I furrowed my brow and clicked on the screenshot.
It was a photo of her and Casper. I recognized the pool area of Sandra’s parents’ backyard. What was wrong with it? Our boy looked happy—oh hell. I read the caption. Or rather, the string of hashtags.
#HappyMom #BestSonEver #CutestBoyInTheUniverse #PoolDay #YoureEverythingToMe #DinnerWithTheGirlsLater
Hurt slashed through me, and anger was quick to follow. How fucking thoughtless could she be? This was public. She may have forgotten we had another son and daughter, but others knew. She was also publicly linked to me, which meant some of our followers had trickled into her account as well.
I wondered why she’d deleted it. Had she realized how stupid some of the hashtags were? Had Kathryn seen it? Had any of her friends commented?
“Okay, I know what I want,” Jake said.
I swallowed and felt a weight settling over me. What the hell was I supposed to do? What more could I Google? How many doctors should I ask? I’d never stumbled across anything helpful for a mother who’d bonded with one child but not their siblings. It was either-or. Hundreds of thousands of articles about emotionally absent parents, maternal bonding, postpartum depression, child attachment disorders, depleted mother syndrome, not to mention countless adults who’d written about growing up in loveless homes.
“Roe?”
I cleared my throat and racked my brain—lunch. I knew what I wanted. Right. “Um, the halibut.”
I felt him watching me, and I was sure I’d triggered some internal alarm, but he ordered for us first. Before he put his hand on mine and gave it a squeeze.
“You okay?”
“I…” I blew out a breath and scratched my forehead. “Honestly, I don’t know.” I wasn’t sure I could explain myself, so I decided to show him the screenshot and Haley’s message instead. “All this time, I’ve been so sure Sandra’s detachment is temporary. And I’m terrified I have to consider it might be permanent.”
Jake frowned as he read from the screen.
For every second that ticked by, the pressure built up within me, and I started seeing future scenarios I had no fucking clue how to deal with. Like, what if when we got divorced, I suddenly had the twins full time and Casper only every other week? Adam and Callie would grow up wondering why their mom didn’t love them. Cas would eventually struggle to choose sides because he loved his brother and sister, at the same time as he loved his mom. He might get angry with her. I definitely would’ve. I could picture a preteen Casper throwing fits to get answers. And Adam’s hurt? Oh, Mommy can’t get enough of my big brother, but I’m not good enough for her.
Jesus Christ. I had to get out of here.
“I’ll be back in a few,” I said and slid off the stool. I grabbed my backpack and headed outside.
I sucked in some air and aimed for the nearest bench on the boardwalk where I sat down.
In the side pocket of my backpack, I dug out a crumpled pack of smokes and a lighter. Once upon a time, I’d been a social smoker at occasional parties and on late nights when I couldn’t sleep. Nowadays, I lit one up in secret when everything at home became too much. It was this or crying in my car.
I took a drag from the smoke and rested my elbows on my knees.
At what point could I unleash my anger on Sandra?
No matter what I had done behind her back, I’d been fucking supportive. I’d stayed when she’d tried to kick me out. I’d stood by her when she’d told me to move on. I’d postponed a decision on divorce because she’d needed me. Not as a husband, clearly, but as someone who could pick up the slack and take care of everything around her.
I’d tried to be her friend, her support, her goddamn cheerleader. And driver. I’d taken her to therapy appointments. I’d participated in some sessions too. I’d read so much about postpartum depression that I almost felt like a doctor myself. I’d never blamed her. I’d listened to Dr. Carlson’s advice. Encourage, don’t push. Take away her stress. Remind her of her children’s unconditional love. Be patient.
I’d been fucking patient, but I was reaching my limit as a father. Because they were my babies too, and if she didn’t get her shit together, they were gonna suffer.
I blew out a harsh breath and took another drag.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and tapped my feet restlessly.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you smoke, darlin’.”
I sniffled and hurriedly wiped at my cheeks, and Jake sat down next to me.
He nudged me gently with his elbow. “Talk to me.”
I coughed and cleared my throat. “When am I allowed to get angry? In the back of my head, I have the guilt telling me to shut the fuck up because no matter what I do, I’ve cheated on her, so I’m not allowed to get mad. I’m not allowed to take another wrong step, I’m not allowed to hold her accountable for anything.”