Adison’s POV
The penthouse feels larger without Jake in it.
I move through my evening routine with Elijah—bath time in the tub that's too big for one small body, feeding him mashed sweet potatoes while he smears orange across his cheeks and giggles at his own mess, the soft lullabies I've learned to sing despite never considering myself musical. My voice isn't beautiful, but Elijah doesn't seem to mind. He watches my mouth form the words with the particular fascination of a child learning that sounds can become songs.
The silence of Jake's absence presses against my skin like humidity, invisible but impossible to ignore. Two weeks now. Two weeks of FaceTime calls that feel like touching someone through glass, of goodnight kisses delivered through phone screens, of reaching across the bed at three a.m. and finding nothing but cold sheets and the lingering scent of a man who isn't here.
Jake has been in Texas finalizing camp infrastructure, hiring staff, building something meaningful on land that matters to him in ways Manhattan never will. I understand the importance. I encouraged this. I refuse to become the wife who guilts her husband for pursuing purpose, who makes him choose between the family he created and the legacy he's building for children who need what only he can give.
But tonight, watching Elijah reach toward the doorway with expectant eyes—looking for a father who isn't there, who won't be there for at least another week—the ache becomes harder to swallow.
"Dada?" Elijah asks, the word still new enough that he uses it like a question instead of a name.
"Dada's working, sweetheart." I lift him from the high chair and press my nose against his still-damp hair, breathing in the baby shampoo and the particular sweetness of his skin. "He'll be home soon."
The promise feels thin in my mouth. Soon has become elastic, stretching to accommodate deadlines and emergencies and the endless complications of building something from nothing.
I put Elijah to bed with extra lullabies and sit in the nursery longer than necessary, the rocking chair holding me in the darkness while I scroll through photos on my phone. Milestones Jake has only seen through screens.
First steps taken across this living room floor while he watched from a Texas ranch, his voice coming through the speaker cheering as our son wobbled toward the camera. First words—"Mama" and then "Dada" and then "no" deployed with toddler authority—that he heard through phone speakers instead of being present to witness.
There's a particular smile Elijah reserves for morning cuddles, a sleepy grin that appears when I lift him from his crib and he's still soft and warm from dreams. Jake hasn't witnessed that smile in person for fourteen days. Hasn't felt the weight of our son against his chest while the sun rises over a city they're both learning to call home.
I'm not angry. Anger would be simpler, easier to hold and eventually release.
I'm just tired. Tired of being strong about something that hurts, tired of performing understanding when what I actually feel is the particular loneliness of being left behind by choice.
My phone rings, and Jake's face fills the screen. I answer with brightness I don't feel, arranging my features into the supportive wife expression I've perfected over the past two weeks.
"Hey, you." My voice sounds almost normal. "How did the staff interviews go?"
"Adison." He says my name like he's setting something down, and I watch his expression shift into concern that tells me my performance isn't as convincing as I thought. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. I can see it in your face." He's sitting on what looks like the porch of the ranch house, Texas darkness spreading behind him, and the distance between us feels measured in more than miles. "Talk to me."
The honesty rises before I can stop it, exhaustion stripping away the careful control I've been maintaining. "Elijah asked for you tonight. He looked at the door like he expected you to walk through it, and I had to tell him you were working. Again."
Jake's expression crumbles in a way that makes my chest ache. "Adison—"
"I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty." The words tumble out faster now, carrying weeks of swallowed feelings. "I support what you're building. I believe in it. But I'm sitting in our son's nursery scrolling through photos of milestones you've only seen through a phone screen, and I'm tired of pretending that doesn't hurt."
The silence that follows stretches long enough to become uncomfortable. I watch Jake's face through the screen, watch him process what I've said without rushing to defend or deflect.
"Something shifted today," he finally says, and his voice carries a weight I wasn't expecting. "I was walking the property, imagining where the children would learn to ride, picturing their faces when they see a horse up close for the first time. And I realized—" He stops, swallows, tries again.
"I realized my own child is learning to walk without me. That I'm building something for other people's kids while missing the moments that matter most with my own."
"Jake—"
"Let me finish." His eyes hold mine through the camera, and I see something raw in his expression, something that's been building beneath the surface of our careful phone calls.
"Building something meaningful doesn't mean anything if I'm absent for the moments that actually matter. I've been treating this like a choice between two important things, but it's not. You and Elijah aren't something I fit my work around. My work is something I fit around you."
"That sounds beautiful, but logistics are complicated." I hate that I'm the one introducing reality, but someone has to. "Geography is stubborn. You can't build a camp in Texas while living in Manhattan full-time."
"I know. I don't have the solution yet." He runs a hand through his hair, and I recognize the gesture—the particular frustration of a man confronting a problem he can't immediately solve. "But I'm done treating family as something that fits around my work. From now on, it's the other way around. Whatever that means, whatever it costs, we figure it out together."
"What does that look like practically?"
"I don't know yet. Maybe it means shorter trips. Maybe it means bringing you both here more often. Maybe it means hiring someone to handle the day-to-day so I'm only here for the parts that actually require me." He leans closer to the camera, and even through the screen I can feel the intensity of his focus. "But I'm not missing any more first steps, Adison. I'm not hearing any more first words through a phone speaker. I'm not letting another two weeks pass where my son forgets what my arms feel like."
The promise settles into my chest like the first honest breath I've taken in weeks.
"When are you coming home?"
"Tomorrow." The word lands with the particular weight of a man who's made a decision and refuses to unmake it. "I'll finish what I can tonight and catch the first flight out. The rest can wait. You and Elijah can't."
I feel tears building behind my eyes and don't bother fighting them. "I love you."
"I love you too." His voice catches on the words. "I'm sorry it took me this long to remember what that actually requires."
The call ends, and I sit in the nursery darkness listening to Elijah breathe through the baby monitor. The rocking chair creaks beneath me as I sway gently, and for the first time in two weeks, the silence doesn't feel like absence.
It feels like anticipation.
Tomorrow, the door will open and Jake will walk through it, and our son will reach for a father who's actually there to reach back.
That's worth more than any camp, any legacy, any meaningful thing built on land a thousand miles away.
I check on Elijah one more time—peaceful, thumb in mouth, dreaming whatever dreams babies dream—and finally let myself go to bed.
The sheets still smell like Jake. By tomorrow night, they'll smell like him again because he'll actually be in them.
I fall asleep smiling for the first time in fourteen days.