No Meanie's Allowed

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

You’d been sniping at each other since the moment you walked into the studio that morning. You’d pointed out, reasonably, you thought, that he had three back-to-back meetings scheduled for tomorrow that overlapped with the only window of time you had to actually get some rest and handle personal life. He’d snapped back that if you couldn’t handle the schedule, maybe you should hire a new assistant for him. You’d fired back something about how maybe you should hire him a new wife while you were at it. It escalated from there. By the time the afternoon rolled around, you were both bristling, trading barbs over every little thing: the way he left his hoodie draped over the chair, the way you “organized” his emails which apparently meant you were deleting important ones when in fact you were putting them in the folder starred at the top of his email so he'd know they were important, the fact that you'd ordered lunch for him and the crew but hadn't actually remembered to order anything for yourself didn't help.

Now it was evening, the Lions game long over, a win, thankfully, or the mood would’ve been nuclear, and the two of you were on opposite ends of the massive sectional in the living room like it was a goddamn battlefield. The TV was off. The only light came from the low lamp on the side table and the city glow filtering through the windows. Marshall had his legs stretched out, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle ticking. You were curled up against the opposite armrest, knees drawn to your chest, refusing to even let your socked feet brush his.

“You gonna keep that up all night?” he muttered, voice low and rough, eyes fixed on the dark screen like it had personally offended him.

“Keep what up?” you shot back, sweet as poison. “Existing? Breathing in your general direction? Sorry, I’ll try to schedule that better next time.”

He let out a sharp breath through his nose, the sound almost a laugh but meaner. “Jesus Christ. You’ve been on my ass since we woke up. What the fuck is your problem today?”

“My problem?” You turned to glare at him fully, heart hammering with that mix of anger and the deeper ache underneath it. “My problem is that I’m your wife, not just the person who keeps your calendar from exploding. But lately it feels like I’m just another item on the list squeeze in some time for her between the studio, the label bullshit, and screaming at the TV every Sunday like it’s your full-time job.”

Marshall’s head snapped toward you, blue eyes flashing. “You knew what this life was when you signed up for it. I don’t hide shit from you. You’re in every meeting you want to be. You sit in the suite at the games—”

“Yeah, in the back,” you interrupted, the words spilling out sharper than you meant. You were poking on purpose now, needling the spots you knew would sting because you were tired and hurt and wanted him to feel some of it. “Wouldn’t want the world to actually see us together, right? Just those little clips you sprinkle into videos when it suits the narrative. I get it, Marshall. You’re private. But sometimes it feels like I’m your dirty little secret instead of your partner.”

He sat up straighter, the couch creaking under the shift. “That’s bullshit and you know it. I take you everywhere. I come home to you every night. What more do you want? A fucking parade? A goddamn Instagram post? Your fifteen fucking minutes?”

“Maybe I want you to sit next to me for once instead of treating me like staff!” Your voice rose, echoing off the high ceilings. “Or maybe I want one Sunday where you’re not glued to football or the studio or whatever else is more important than actually being here with me. I’m lonely, okay? And yeah, I’ve been picking fights all day because at least then you’re paying attention to me instead of everything else.”

The silence that dropped after your words was heavy. Marshall stared at you, chest rising and falling, that familiar mix of frustration and something softer flickering across his face. He looked like he wanted to argue more, his mouth opened, closed, then opened again, but instead he just ran a hand over his short hair and muttered a string of curses under his breath.

You didn’t move closer. Neither did he. The space between you on the couch felt like miles, both of you stubbornly refusing to bridge it even as the fight drained some of the heat out of the air. Your arms stayed wrapped around your knees. His stayed crossed.

“Fuck,” he finally said, quieter. “You really wanna do this right now?”

You lifted your chin, eyes still narrowed even as tears pricked at the corners. “Yeah. I do. Because I love you, you idiot. And right now I also kind of hate how easy it is for everything else to come first.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you with that intense gaze that always saw too much. The couch remained a divided territory, the sniping paused but the tension thick enough to choke on. Neither of you was ready to touch. Not yet.

But the fight wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

---

The argument dragged on for another hour, sharp and circular, like a knife twisting in the same wound. You threw barbs about how he treated the studio like a mistress and the Lions like his first-born. He fired back that you knew exactly who you married, a workaholic from Detroit who didn’t do “balance” and never pretended to. The words got colder, more precise, each one designed to sting without quite drawing blood. You both stayed on your separate sides of the couch, bodies angled away, voices low and clipped.

Eventually the venom ran dry. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight. Neither of you suggested fixing it. Marshall just stood up, jaw tight, and muttered, “I’m going to bed,” before heading upstairs without waiting for you. You followed a few minutes later, the house silent except for your footsteps.

By the time you slipped under the covers, the anger had burned itself out, leaving only a heavy, aching sadness in its place. Marshall was already on his side of the bed, back turned to you, the broad line of his shoulders rigid even in the dark. You lay there on your back, staring at the ceiling, feeling utterly alone despite the fact that your husband was less than two feet away. It was a special kind of fucked up, being this lonely right next to the person you loved most. You listened as his breathing slowly evened out, deepening into the steady rhythm of sleep. He always fell asleep fast after a fight, like his brain had a shutdown switch. You couldn’t. You were freezing. The bed felt too big, too empty. You were so used to tucking yourself against his chest, leg thrown over his, his arm heavy around your waist like an anchor. Without it, the sheets were cold, the pillow wrong, every shift uncomfortable. You turned onto your side, then your other side, curling into a tight ball, but nothing helped.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Your eyes burned from exhaustion and unshed tears. The quiet pressed in, amplifying every small sound, his soft exhale, the distant hum of the street outside.

Then, without warning, a firm arm slid across the mattress. Warm fingers found your waist and pulled, dragging you backward across the sheets until your back hit his chest. You went willingly, breath catching in your throat as Marshall’s body curved around yours solid, familiar, warm. His lips pressed to the pulse point just below your ear, soft and lingering, before he grumbled in that gravelly, half-asleep voice, “I’m sorry I’m a fucking dick, baby. C’mere.”

He wrapped himself fully around you then, one leg hooking over yours, arm locked tight across your middle, face buried in the crook of your neck. The relief was immediate and overwhelming. You hadn’t expected the way your breath hitched or how quickly tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but you turned in his arms and snuggled deeper into him anyway, pressing your face into the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“I shouldn’t have gotten so upset…” you murmured against his skin, voice small and shaky.

Marshall chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest even though he was still mostly asleep. “Baby, you should be more upset. You’re way too good for me and my bullshit.” His hand rubbed slow circles on your back. “I just don’t want you in the shit, you know that right?”

You nodded against his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of his soap, the faint traces of his cologne, home. “Just… sometimes maybe I want to remember you love me. And it’s hard if you’re so busy. I feel like I’m in last place.”

His arm tightened around you instinctively, almost possessively. Then you felt him shift, waking up a little more. His free hand came up, fingers gentle but firm as they tilted your chin until you were looking up at him in the dark. His eyes, heavy-lidded and sincere, found yours.

“You’re not in last place, babydoll.”

The spiral started quietly, then snowballed.

By the time Allison stopped by the next afternoon, you were a mess. You’d spent the morning trying to “help” Marshall pack while crying over the tiny purple onesie Whitney had worn home from the hospital because it didn't fit anymore. Now you were sitting on the floor of the nursery surrounded by baby clothes, tears streaming down your face while Whitney fussed in her bouncer.

Allison took one look at you and immediately dropped her purse. “Katie, honey. What’s going on?”

You wiped at your eyes, embarrassed. “He’s gonna miss everything, Allie. She’s only three weeks old and he’s leaving for months. What if she forgets what he looks like? What if I can’t do this by myself? What if—”

Marshall walked in right as your voice cracked again. He’d clearly been looking for you. The second he saw you on the floor, his face shifted from concern to that deep, searching look he got whenever he was trying to read you.

“Katie…” He crouched down in front of you, hands on your knees. “Talk to me.”

You shook your head, trying to force a watery smile. “I’m fine. It’s just hormones. I’m being dramatic. You have to go on tour, I know that. It’s your job. It's my job, I get it, I understand I promise... I just… I didn’t think about how much you were actually going to miss with her. With us.” Allison and Marshall exchanged a long look over your head.

Marshall’s voice softened, but there was a serious edge underneath. “Katie, you’ve been crying a lot lately. Even when things are good. You cried for twenty minutes yesterday because Whitney made a new noise and you said it sounded like she was saying ‘ dada’ even though she’s way too little.”

“She did!” you insisted, fresh tears spilling over.

Allison knelt beside you, rubbing gentle circles on your back. “Honey… I love you, but this might be more than just normal new-mom stuff. You’re barely sleeping. You’re spiraling every time Marshall leaves the room for more than an hour. You won’t even entertain the idea of getting some help around here.”

You shook your head stubbornly, hugging Whitney closer when she started to fuss. “I don’t need or want a nanny. She's my baby I can take care of her. I’m not… I’m not depressed. I’m happy. I have you,” you looked at Marshall, “and her, and the girls, and Nate and this beautiful life we made. I’m just emotional because I love you both so much and everything feels really big right now.”

Marshall exhaled slowly, then sat fully on the floor and pulled you into his lap, careful of the baby between you. His arms wrapped around both of you, strong and steady like always. “I know you’re happy, baby girl,” he murmured against your red hair. “But happy people can still be struggling. And you’ve been through a lot. Pregnancy, birth, Kim’s bullshit, me getting ready to leave… You don’t have to do the hardest parts alone.”

Allison nodded. “We’re not saying you’re broken, or even depressed. We’re saying you’ve been carrying a lot and your brain chemistry is probably still adjusting. It doesn’t make you any less of an amazing mom or wife.”

You buried your face in Marshall’s neck, breathing him in while Whitney made soft little noises against your chest. The denial sat heavy on your tongue, but so did the exhaustion. The constant lump in your throat. The way even good days felt like you were wading through mud. “I don’t want to need help,” you whispered.

Marshall kissed the side of your head. “Tough shit, shorty. You’re the dumb fuck who married me. Now it’s my job to take care of my girl. And Allie’s. And your dad’s. We’re a team. Besides I don't need your best friend kicking my ass, remember? Plus Allie may try too.”

You let out a watery laugh that turned into another sob.

Allison smiled softly. “I’ll stay longer. We’ll get you in to talk to someone this week. No pressure, no labels if you don’t want them yet. But you’re not doing this alone while he’s gone.”

Marshall held you both a little tighter, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back while his other palm rested gently on Whitney’s back. “I hate that I have to leave right now,” he admitted quietly. “But I need to know you’re okay. Or at least working on being okay. Because coming home to my girls means coming home to all of you,  happy, sad, crying over onesies, whatever. I can take all of it. Just don’t hide it from me, Katie.”

You nodded against his neck, the fight slowly draining out of you. "Fine Squish, but when she says I'm fine you're buying me a Coke." 

Marshall just laughs, "Regular or Diet?" 

You scrunch your nose at him and snark, "If you have to ask I need to rethink this whole situation. Whitney is two months old and knows Mama doesn't do soda without aspartame..." 

---

The decision came quietly, almost too easily.

You let Allison move into the guest room the following week. She brought two suitcases and her no-nonsense energy, announcing she was staying “until you’re steady on your feet again.” You hugged her tight and told her you were grateful. You even let Marshall schedule you an appointment with a therapist he’d found through a recommendation.

You smiled when he told you the time. You kissed his cheek and said thank you.

Then you cancelled the appointment the next morning without telling either of them.

You didn’t mention that you still slipped into the nursery most nights after everyone else was asleep, rocking Whitney in the dark while silent tears ran down your face. You didn’t tell them how heavy your chest felt when she finally drifted off against you, or how sometimes you whispered apologies to her for not being the bright, put-together mom you thought you should be by now. The mom you wanted to be for her.

You also didn’t talk about the orange prescription bottle you kept seeing on Marshall’s side of the sink. The sleeping pills he’d first gotten while filming 8 Mile. He’d told you he was renewing them because the tour schedule was brutal and he needed to rest when he could. It made sense. You told yourself it made sense.

But it scared you.

You watched him swallow one some nights when the house was finally quiet, and something anxious twisted in your stomach. The boy who used to fall asleep on your bedroom floor during sleepovers now needed chemical help just to shut his brain off. You didn’t say anything. After all, you weren’t exactly winning awards for taking the best care of yourself either, and his excuses made sense. He had a tour, an album to promote, a record label he was working on growing, plus three kids, a wife and a newborn. If he needed help sleeping it made sense.

By the time Marshall’s tour kicked off, the two of you had worked out a schedule: he would fly home every six to seven days, no matter what. Never gone longer than a week. It was the best compromise you could manage with his team. You smiled when you hugged him goodbye at the airport, Whitney tucked against your chest in a carrier, the older kids waving beside you.

“You come home soon, okay, Squish?” you whispered against his lips.

“Seven days,” he promised, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ll be back before you know it. Call me if you need anything. Anything, Katie.”

You nodded. You kissed him like everything was fine.

Inside, your entire nervous system was screaming.

---

The first night he was gone, you sat in the rocking chair in the nursery long after Whitney had fallen asleep, tears slipping silently down your cheeks while you clutched her warm little body. Allison was downstairs with the older kids. Your dad had offered to stay too. Everyone was helping.

But Marshall wasn’t there.

And even though you kept telling yourself this was the right thing. That he needed to tour, that the girls needed stability, that seeing him chase his dreams and provide for them was so good for them, that you couldn’t add more pressure to an already impossible plate... the fragile parts of you that had been barely holding on felt like they were fraying faster now that he was gone.

You rocked your daughter slowly in the dark and whispered to her, “We’re okay, sweet girl. Mommy’s okay. Daddy has to work, but he’s coming home soon.” The words felt thin even as you said them.

You didn’t call him that night and tell him you were struggling. You didn’t call Allison into the nursery to sit with you. You just kept rocking, kept breathing, kept pretending that seven days was enough.

Because you loved him.

Because he was already fighting so many battles between Debbie and Kim, the tour, the new album, the weight of being Eminem. He already couldn't sleep there was so much on his plate, and you couldn’t bring yourself to be another thing he had to worry about. So you wiped your tears before leaving the nursery, kissed Whitney’s soft head, and crawled into your too-empty bed.

Seven days.

You could make it seven days.

At least… that’s what you kept telling yourself.

---

Even with Allison sleeping down the hall and your dad checking in every day, the house felt different without Marshall in it. You held it together during the daylight hours finding it easy to be in a routine of playing with the girls, feeding Whitney, laughing at the right times, even curling up on the couch after the younger kids were in bed and watching baseball games with Nate, but once the lights went out everything else got harder. So much harder.

By the time Marshall came home after his first week on tour, your mask was locked firmly in place. You’d spent the entire morning cleaning, smiling, and making sure the house looked warm and welcoming. Allison had given you a long, searching look but hadn’t pushed when you told her you were fine. The older kids were excited, bouncing around and making signs that said, “Welcome Home Daddy!” in your neat handwriting while they added their own drawings to it. You'd even added a little paint to Whitney's tiny hands and feet and added her prints too.

Whitney had just finished a feed and was content in a soft onesie, smelling like baby lotion and milk. When Marshall walked through the front door, exhausted but smiling, the relief on his face nearly broke you. His eyes found you immediately. The tension in his shoulders melted the second he saw you standing there with Whitney on your hip and the girls rushing toward him. He dropped his bag, opened his arms, and pulled all of you in at once clutching you against his chest like he’d been starving for it. His face pressed into your hair, breathing you in, one arm tight around your waist while the other supported Whitney between you.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he whispered against your temple, voice rough from travel and lack of sleep. “Missed my girls so much.”

You hugged him back just as tightly, burying your face in his neck so he couldn’t see your eyes. Your smile felt brittle, like it might crack if he looked too closely, but you held it steady. “We missed you too, Squish,” you murmured, voice soft and warm. “Welcome home.”

You had planned to tell him everything.

You’d rehearsed it in your head the whole time you'd been prepping the house that morning. How the nights were harder than you let on, how some days you could barely eat more than a smoothie or a few bites of toast, how the quiet felt crushing when he was gone. You were going to be honest. You were going to let him see how much you were struggling.

But the second you saw that pure, exhausted relief in his eyes… the way he held you like you were still his safe place after weeks of chaos on the road… you couldn’t do it. He needed peace. He needed you to be his peace. And he was only home for three days before he had to fly back out.

So you swallowed it all down.

You laughed when the girls dragged him to the living room to show him the welcome signs. You let him hold Whitney and coo at her, making silly faces, while you made dinner (a light pasta you barely touched). You curled into his side that night like nothing was wrong, kissing him slow and deep when he pulled you close in bed, whispering how much you loved him, how proud you were of him.

He never noticed that you hadn’t had a real meal the whole time he was home.

He never noticed the way your hands trembled slightly when you rocked Whitney in the nursery at 2 a.m., silent tears slipping down your cheeks again.

He never noticed how carefully you kept the conversation light. Keeping everything focused on funny stories about the girls, how big Whitney was getting, how Allison had been helping you redecorate the older girls' rooms...anything except the truth that you felt like you were quietly drowning.

On the last night before he left, Marshall held you close after the kids were asleep, his fingers threading through your hair the way he’d done since you were teenagers. “You good, shorty?” he asked quietly, studying your face in the low lamplight. “You seem… tired.”

You smiled but it was soft and practiced, but convincing enough as you leaned up to kiss him. “I’m okay. Just missed you. The house feels right when you’re in it.”

He searched your eyes for another second, then relaxed, pulling you tighter against his chest. “Good. Because I need this. Need you. Coming home to you and the girls… it’s what keeps me sane out there.”

Your heart twisted so hard it hurt, but you just hugged him closer, hiding your face against his neck. “I’m right here, Marsh. Always.”

Three days.

You kept the mask on for three days.

Even if every fragile part of you was screaming for him to stay. Even if the thought of him leaving again made your stomach knot with anxiety. Even if you were running on empty and pretending you weren’t.

Because he was your squish.

And right now, more than anything, he needed you to be okay.

So you’d be okay.

At least until the next time he came home.

---

The car was waiting early the next morning. You kissed him goodbye at the door with Whitney in your arms and that same steady smile on your face, waving until the car disappeared down the driveway. Then you went inside, closed the door, and let the mask slip for just a moment. Just long enough to lean against the wall and breathe through the tightness in your chest.

Seven more days.

You could do this.

You had to.

---

Weeks clicked by in a soft, relentless blur.

Whitney was eight weeks old, then ten, then twelve. The days blended together in a haze of feedings, naps, toddler-like meltdowns from the older girls, and the constant low hum of Marshall’s schedule. Every time he came home, no matter how late or how stressful the day had been for him, the second he walked through the door his whole face changed.

And every single time, you swallowed down what you wanted to say.

The next time it happened, Whitney was barely asleep and you'd had maybe the roughest day with her since she'd been born because she was super fussy all day. Marshall walked in after a fourteen-hour travel day after everything, yet the moment he spotted you on the green sectional with the baby asleep on your chest and the girls curled up watching a movie, and his tired expression melted into that genuine, boyish smile you’d loved since you were five.

“Fuck, I missed you guys,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion as he dropped his bag and crossed the room. He kissed the top of your head, then each of the girls, before carefully scooping Whitney up like she was made of glass. “Look at you, little squish. Getting bigger every day.”

You opened your mouth to tell him I’m struggling. I feel like I’m drowning some days. I love her so much it hurts but I’m so tired and I don’t feel like me, but he looked so damn happy holding her, so relieved to be home with his family, that the words died in your throat. Instead, you just hugged him when he sat down beside you and let him think everything was okay.

It kept happening.

Two weeks later, he came home earlier than expected and found you in the kitchen trying (and failing) to make dinner while Whitney fussed in her bouncer and you fought back tears because the smell of garlic was making you nauseous again. The second he stepped through the door, his eyes lit up.

“There’s my girls,” he said, immediately moving to take Whitney out of the bouncer and pressing a kiss to your temple. “Smells good in here. You didn’t have to cook, shorty. I could’ve picked something up.”

He looked so proud of you. So grateful. So in love with the little life you’d built together. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t dim that light in his eyes by telling him that some days you sat on the bathroom floor and cried because you felt like a terrible mother, even though Whitney was healthy and thriving. That the postpartum fog still hadn’t fully lifted. That you missed your best friend, and you hated the version of yourself who didn’t overthink every single thing.

So you smiled, leaned into his side, and said, “It’s fine. I wanted to.”

Another night, he came home buzzing from a great run of shows, excited to tell you about it. He'd swept Hailie and Alaina up into dramatic hugs, made silly faces at Whitney until she giggled that new little baby sweet laugh that made everyone melt, then pulled you into his arms and kissed you slow and deep like he’d been thinking about it all day.

“God, I love coming home to this,” he murmured against your lips. “You have no idea what it does to me, Katie. Between Debbie and Kim, I never thought it could be like this.”

Your chest ached with how much you loved him in that moment. The words were right there I’m struggling, Marsh. I need help. I feel like I’m failing even though everything looks perfect on the outside but he looked so content, so grounded by the sight of his family waiting for him, that you couldn’t bring yourself to shatter it. Not when he finally had something stable and beautiful after years of chaos.

Instead, you hugged him tighter than usual and whispered, “We love when you come home too.”

Week after week, the pattern repeated. Marshall would walk through the door tired but happy, and the weight on your chest would get a little heavier because you couldn’t tell him. You didn’t want to be the reason that light in his eyes dimmed. You didn’t want him to worry about you on top of the tour planning, the custody battles with Kim, the album deadlines, and everything else he was carrying.

So you kept smiling.

You kept hugging him like nothing was wrong.

You kept being his Katie, his tiny redheaded girl. Trying to take on the role of best friend, wife, mother with the grace you thought every woman felt. All the while quietly unraveling on the inside, waiting for the right moment that never seemed to come.

Because every time he looked at you and the kids like you were the best part of his life, the words I'm hurting just wouldn’t come out.

You knew you couldn’t keep this up forever.  

Something had to give.  

You just didn’t know how to tell the man who’d fought so hard for this life that the woman he loved was quietly falling apart inside it.

---

It wasn’t Marshall. It wasn’t Allison. It wasn’t even your dad.

It was Nate.

Your birthday fell on a Thursday that year, and Marshall had cleared his schedule for a full week at home. He’d been back since Friday night, soaking up every second with the kids and you. Your dad had come over with bags of takeout, your favorites from the Thai place downtown you loved, and the house felt fuller and warmer than it had in weeks. For a little while, it almost felt normal.

After dinner, Hailie and Alaina ran off to play in the living room with Whitney, who was now nearly three months old and starting to babble and smile at everything. The adults lingered at the table, talking quietly, the low hum of family conversation wrapping around you.

Then Nate, who had been unusually quiet all evening, set his fork down and looked straight at you. “So… is anyone else going to talk about the fact that even though she's been okay this week Katie’s about one bad day away from a total mental breakdown?” His voice was calm but edged with something sharp. “Or are we all just gonna keep pretending she’s not depressed and trying to hide it?”

The table went dead silent.

Marshall’s head snapped toward you. Allison’s eyes widened. Your dad froze mid-sip of his drink. All three of them turned to look at you at once. You felt the blood drain from your face.

You could tell that they were really seeing you now. The weight you’d lost that your already-tiny frame couldn’t afford. The way your cheeks had gone hollow. The dullness in your once-bright eyes that no amount of forced smiling could hide anymore. You’d hidden it so well, or at least you’d thought you had. The endless feedings, the nights alone with Whitney while Marshall was gone, the quiet breakdowns in the shower when the tour schedule felt too heavy and the house felt too empty. The every-seven-days compromise wasn’t working. You were drowning, and you’d been too scared to admit it.

Nate, sixteen years old and carrying more baggage than any kid his age should, was the only one who hadn’t needed to believe you were going to be okay. Because he’d seen too much. He knew what falling apart looked like.

“Katie…” Marshall’s voice was low, rough with sudden guilt and worry. He reached for your hand across the table, but you pulled it back instinctively, terrified now that the truth was out.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, the words automatic, even as your eyes filled with tears. “It’s just… it’s a lot with the baby and the tour and everything. I’m handling it.”

Allison shook her head slowly, her expression crumbling. “You’re not handling it, babe. Look at you.”

Your dad’s face twisted with quiet pain. “Sweetheart… why didn’t you say anything?”

Marshall looked devastated. The man who had gone to war with lawyers for his daughters, who came home every week like you and the kids were his safe place, now stared at you like the ground had shifted under him. “Katie,” he said again, softer this time, but edged with something you didn't recognize in his voice. “Baby, talk to me. Please.”

You looked between all of them, your husband, your best friend, your father, and Nate who had quietly seen what no one else wanted to, and the dam finally cracked. Your shoulders started to shake as the tears spilled over. “I didn’t want to ruin it,” you choked out. “Every time you come home you look so happy to see us. Like this is everything you’ve ever wanted. I couldn’t… I couldn’t take that away from you. Not when you’re already dealing with the tour and Kim and everything else.”

Marshall pushed his chair back and moved around the table in seconds, dropping to his knees in front of you. His hands cupped your face gently, thumbs brushing away tears even as his own eyes glistened. “You’re not ruining anything,” he said fiercely. “You’re my wife. You’re the mother of my kids. If you’re falling apart, I need to know. I want to know. Fuck, Katie… I thought you were okay. I thought we were okay.”

You leaned into his touch, exhausted and relieved and terrified all at once. “The seven-days thing isn’t working. I miss you too much. Whitney misses you. I feel like I’m failing at everything and I didn’t want you to worry while you’re out there… I-I wanted so badly to be her mom, and I'm failing Marsh. She cries all the time, and I can't soothe her because she knows. She knows I'm not a good mom.”

Nate stayed quiet at the end of the table, but his eyes were steady, protective in his own way, because he couldn't do anything for you but now the people who can aren't able to keep ignoring it. Allison reached over and squeezed your shoulder. Your dad looked like he was barely holding it together.

Marshall pressed his forehead to yours, voice cracking. “Fucking hell Katie... You're the best mom baby. You don't even know how much these kids adore you. I'm not letting you keep living with this shit in your head. We’re fixing this. Right now. I don’t give a fuck about the schedule. We’ll change it. You should’ve told me, shorty. You always tell me.”

“I know,” you whispered, sobbing quietly. “I just… I’ve always been the one who doesn't need much. I'm the one who hugs everyone. I didn’t know how to say I needed hugging this time. I don't know how to say that I'm not okay.”

He pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping around you tight, the same way he had since you were five years old. “Then I’ll hug you until you’re sick of it. Every damn day if I have to.”

For the first time in weeks, sitting there at the dining table with your family surrounding you and Nate’s quiet truth still hanging in the air, you let yourself stop pretending.

You were struggling.  

You were depressed.  

You were barely holding on.

And for once, you didn’t have to hide it.

By the time you finally got all three girls in bed, the house felt heavy with exhaustion.

Whitney had fought sleep the hardest tonight, cluster feeding and fussing for nearly an hour. Hailie had needed extra reassurance after another tense phone call with Kim earlier in the day, and Alaina had dragged out bedtime stories until you were almost delirious. When you finally slipped into the master bedroom and closed the door behind you, your body ached in ways that had nothing to do with physical labor anymore.

Marshall was already in bed, propped against the headboard in a black t-shirt, tapping his pen on his notebook with a tight expression. The second you crawled in beside him, he set the phone down.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then he turned toward you, eyes sharp in the low lamplight. “You’ve been lying to me.”

The words landed heavy. You froze, pulling the blanket higher around your shoulders like it could protect you from this conversation. “I haven’t—”

“Don’t,” he cut you off, voice low but edged with anger. “Don’t fucking do that. I’ve been watching you, Katie. Every time I come home you’re smiling, hugging me, telling me everything’s fine. But something is wrong. You’ve been off for weeks and you’ve been hiding it, even when I asked. Every fucking time I asked you said you were okay.”

You swallowed hard, tears already burning behind your eyes. The dam you’d been holding together with sheer willpower finally cracked. “I didn’t want to worry you,” you whispered, voice small. “You’re always so happy when you walk through the door… seeing us, seeing the kids. You’ve got the tour coming up, the album, all the shit with Kim. I didn’t want to add to it.”

Marshall sat up straighter, jaw clenched. The worry that had been simmering in him for days had finally boiled over into pure pissed-off frustration. “So you just decided to suffer in silence? That’s what we’re doing now?” His voice rose slightly before he caught himself, glancing at the baby monitor. “I’m not a fucking mind reader, Katie. I can’t help you if you won’t tell me you’re drowning.”

You looked down at your hands, tears slipping free. “I’m struggling. A lot. Some days I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water. I love Whitney so much it hurts, but I’m so tired and everything feels too loud and too heavy and I just… I didn’t know how to say it without ruining everything... or admitting that I'm sacred I don't love her enough. Everything was supposed to be good, I mean you actually look happy...and I can't even take care of our baby.”

Marshall exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand over his face. Then came the part you knew would hurt him most. “And the therapist?” he asked, dangerously quiet. “The appointment I made for you before the tour started… you went didn’t you?”

You winced. The silence that followed was damning. “I um... I didn't go,” you admitted softly. “I cancelled it.”

“Jesus Christ, Katie.” He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I set that up weeks ago because I could see you slipping. I thought if I made the call it would be harder for you to back out. And you just… cancelled it?”

“I was going to reschedule,” you tried weakly, but even you didn’t believe it.

Marshall turned fully toward you, eyes burning with a mix of hurt and anger. “You’ve been my best friend since we were kids. You’ve never had a problem calling me on my shit. But the second you need help, you shut me out? After everything? After I’ve been fighting like hell to keep this family together while you’ve been falling apart alone?”

Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks. “I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t want to be another thing you had to fix. You already fight so hard for Hailie and Lainey, for Whitney, for all of us. I didn’t want to be a burden on top of it.”

He reached out and cupped your face, thumb brushing away tears even as his jaw stayed tight with frustration. “You’re not a burden, you fucking idiot. You’re my wife. You’re the mother of my kids. You’re my Katie. If you’re struggling, I need to know. I don’t get to come home and be happy while you’re breaking inside. That’s not how this works.”

You leaned into his touch, sobbing quietly. “I’m sorry, Squish. I really am.”

Marshall pulled you into his chest, wrapping both arms around you tightly. His voice softened, but the anger was still there underneath but it was anger born from fear and love.

“We’re fixing this,” he said firmly against your hair. “Tomorrow you’re calling the therapist and making a new appointment. I don’t care if I have to sit in the room with you. And from now on, you tell me when it’s bad. Even if I look happy walking through the door. Especially then.”

You nodded against his chest, clinging to him like you had since you were five years old. “I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you too,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Even when you’re being a stubborn pain in my ass. But no more hiding, shorty. We’ve been through too much shit together for that. And for the record? A shitty mom doesn't ever worry that she doesn't love her kids enough. You're fucking perfect at this baby... these kids love you. Even Nate stood up for you tonight because he was worried about you. You're the heart of this place Kate.”