Page 17 of The Hotel Room

Noah stared at her, chest heaving.

Lily buried her face in the shirt she had been folding.

Kate closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself not to cry, not to break, not tofall apartin front of her children.

When she opened them, her voice was softer, but no less strained.

“I’m sorry, Noah. I know this is hard. Iknow. But this isn’t about you. Or Lily. This is between your dad and me. And I’m asking you—please—just trust me right now. Okay?”

Noah didn’t respond.

He just shook his head, backing out of the room, shoulders tense as he stormed down the hall.

The bedroom door didn’t slam.

But it might as well have.

Lily peeked up at her, voice small.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

Kate swallowed hard, pressing a hand over her chest where the ache was strongest.

“I’m okay, baby,” she whispered, even though it wasn’t true.

Not even close.

She had built her whole life around being a wife, a mother.

And now?

Now it felt like all of it was crumbling.

And she wasn’t sure who she was without it.

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The car was too quiet.

Kate gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, her knuckles pale as she navigated the stop-and-go traffic toward the high school. The only sound was the faint whir of the heater and the occasional squeak of windshield wipers.

Noah sat in the passenger seat, earbuds jammed in, head angled toward the window like the entire world beyond the glass was more interesting than acknowledging her presence. His arms were crossed over his chest, his jaw tight. The same tense, silent defiance he’d been wearing since…

Sinceeverything.

Lily was in the backseat, her pink lunchbox clutched to her lap. She’d tried to fill the silence earlier, chattering about her choir practice and asking if they could get ice cream later, but eventually, even she had quieted.

The weight of Noah’s silence was too loud.

Kate swallowed hard, stealing a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. His hair was longer than usual, falling into his face. She’d asked him if he wanted a haircut that morning, but he’d shrugged, barely looking up from his phone.

Everything felt like that lately—small moments that used to be easy, effortless—now sharp and strained, like walking on glass.

He blames you.

The thought sank deep, pressing heavier with every mile closer to the school.

She couldn’t blame him, not really. She hadn’t explained much. Couldn’t. How could shepossiblyexplain something so impossible without breaking his heart?

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