Page 67 of Absolution

First, the reconciliation emails. I cross-check them with his credit card bills. According to the bills, he stayed at some hotels for several days, but only filed reconciliation for one.

Huh. Mr. Integrity.

The list isn’t long. Most of the charges are what you’d expect. A couple dinners, rideshare apps. Then I spot something… odd. A recurring charge to a porn site. Two, actually. He charged porn to his business card?

Whodoesthat?

But none of that compares to the line item that stops my heart.

Northview Medical Centre. Five figures. Hospital stay, surgical fee, labs.

I stare at the date.

One year ago. I remember the date. Vividly.

He was in Chicago, helping a high-profile client who got into legal trouble. Stayed two weeks. Claimed he was buried in meetings. Barely called.

And all this time, I thought he was just being cold. Distant.

Not in surgery.

The billing summary lists the procedure like it’s just another formality: ‘Bilateral Vasectomy - Outpatient + Extended Observation.’

Extended observation. What does that even mean?

He got a vasectomy. While I was here. With three children. Alone.

And he never said a word.

Motherfucker.

It all builds quietly after that.

The weeks pass in layers, measured in school pickups, lecture notes, late-night coffee, and silent dinners where I looked at Kyle and smiled like I wasn’t holding the truth in my back pocket. I waited. I planned. I gathered myself like armour.

And now…

“Today’s the day,” I say, half to the group, half to myself.

We’re back in the circle, plastic chairs, lukewarm coffee in paper cups, and faces that have grown familiar. Nine women and Don, all who’ve walked their own minefields. Some are bruised, some are bold, but all of them know what it’s like to watch your world fall apart and somehow still have to pack school lunches.

Trish tilts her head. “You’re telling him?”

I nod. “I’ve been reading these books on divorce, co-parenting, trauma, all of it. And they all say the same thing. Don’t make your spouse your enemy.”

A few scoffs, a few nods. Trish just watches me.

“I might hate him,” I say quietly, “but we have three kids. And for them, it has to be civil.”

Trish’s voice is soft but firm. “Sounds like you already know what you need to do.”

“I saw a therapist,” I add. “Got cleared. Of sound mind.” I laugh. “Dubious, but whatever.”

Trish smiles. “That’s all the time we have, everyone. See you next week.”

Chairs scrape. Hugs are exchanged. The usual chorus of “see you” and “take care.” Kate lingers behind, like she’s waiting.

“Coffee?” she asks.

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