Happy birthday, Emma! Here are the answers to the rest of your Shack prompts: When did Sharon separate from Jack? What made her take that step? When did she stop the cycle of enabling him? Set after 2x07.

Just know that the epic retribution at the very end was written by lolcat202, who was good enough to beta this for me. Her suggestions made this 1,000 times better.

All my love 3

Sharon closed her eyes as she sunk lower into her steaming bubble bath. At 2:00 a.m., when Jack-induced insomnia struck, she figured she'd fare better for indulging in a bath than tossing and turning, especially after such a taxing day. Desperate for relief even before she'd left the office, she'd prayed for emotional exhaustion to take a physical manifestation.

Thanks to that damn envelope, her mind wouldn't shut down. She was finally done with Jack.

Sharon could hear her mother. You said that the first time. But she hadn't, really. Suddenly raising a three-year-old and a five-year-old alone, reconciling the extra hours at work with the babysitter fees, and investigating male cops who would still be promoted before her was not easy. For years, she ached for the stability she and Jack dreamed of but never truly had, for the support and love that he vowed to provide. Every time she welcomed him back into their family or back into her condo—"Only for a couple nights, Sharon"—her resolve, packed tight into the dream she'd had since Jack finally found the courage to ask her to the movies, corroded with every subsequent disappointment. Every woman she caught him with, every one of Emily's missed recitals, every father/son camping trip Ricky couldn't attend, chipped away at her crumbling expectations. For so long, Sharon thought Jack's rehabilitation would have made it all worth it. If she could just be pretty enough, encouraging enough, strong enough, soft enough, good enough, enough. During his periods of sobriety, Jack tried to make it up to the kids, but she gave up on a happy ending for the two of them after he gave up a year of sobriety and fidelity for Ricky's AP U.S. History teacher.

Sharon plucked the wine glass resting on the tub's rim and took a long sip. Her children were the only parts of her dream that still mattered to her. Years of callouses, meant only for the adults Sharon would never truly consider them, toughened Ricky and Emily to the world they thrived in now. Slowly, choking sobs at every sudden departure morphed into hidden tears on birthday cards, until finally, visiting their father became a chore instead of a privilege. Time after time, they made her proud, made her feel like she had been more than enough for them. Sighing, Sharon pinched the bridge of her nose. Emily and Ricky didn't need a father, especially now, but God, Sharon wished she'd been able to give them one.

"Emily, will you open the door for Mama?" Sharon cooed over Ricky's wails. According to the daycare, he had a fever of 101.7, but at least Sharon could rest easy knowing that this lingering cold had not affected his lungs. Jack was supposed to take him to the doctor two days ago, but he couldn't get out of court, and she'd been stuck sending George Andrews to yet another sensitivity training.

So, here she was, loitering outside her own house with a screaming toddler and a week's worth of FID reports in her arms, while a five-year-old teetering on her ballerina tip-toes tried to reach the knob. When Emily squealed, "I got it," Sharon barely had time to congratulate her before she knew something was terribly wrong.

Her great-grandmother's antique vase was missing from the foyer, as was the matching silver-framed mirror that hung above the table the vase rested on. Instinctively, Sharon dropped her files and scooped Emily up, backing out of any intruder's line of sight. "Emily," she whispered, despite Ricky's continued cries. "Take your brother and go next door to Mrs. Hampton's, and wait there until I come to get you."

"But Mama, I'm tired—"

Sharon thrust a screaming Ricky into her daughter's arms. "Emily, please do as I say," she begged. "I need your help."

Emily huffed, resigned to be, once again, Mama's Big Helper. She trudged across the lawn to Mrs. Hampton's front porch, where, to Sharon's immense relief, the matronly old woman sat in her wicker chair.

As soon as Mrs. Hampton scooped Ricky out of Emily's determined but faltering grip, Sharon sneaked into her house, weapon drawn. Gliding through the foyer, she strained to hear any shuffling or moving, scanned every corner for a shadow, struggled to steady her hands.

The more rooms in the house Sharon cleared, the more obvious it became that nothing was out of place, but so much was missing. The TV, their wedding china, the few pieces of valuable jewelry she hadn't sold, leftovers from last night, Jack's clothes. Like dying leaves drifting downstream, gone before she realized all she'd lost. By the time Sharon ripped open the letter waiting on her pillow, she knew.

Sharon, it read, I can't stop. I know I promised. I'm in some trouble. I'm sorry.

The disturbances didn't end with Jack's departure. No sooner had Sharon read Jack's note did she realize that Jack had taken everything of value out of the house. When her debit card was declined at the grocery store later that evening, she made an appointment with a pale, sweating bank teller, who informed her that her husband had cleaned out their accounts. One visit to the bank later, another, steelier, grave teller gave Sharon a crash course on the consequences of the second mortgage that both somehow bore her signature and ruined her credit. Next thing she knew, her father was trying to pay her bills and hire a lawyer to file for legal separation, and her mother was sleeping with her at night, filling what was left of her daughter's heart with empty promises. Oh, sweet baby. Everything's going to be okay.

Shaking the memory from her head, Sharon rose from the tub and grabbed a towel. If not for the painful recollection, the bath and the wine might have done their job, but bad memories, cooling water, and lukewarm wine wouldn't make her any sleepier, so she would have to try her luck in bed.

Of all the fights Sharon and Jack had, they had never fought professionally. Another small blessing in her IA career. As Sharon discarded her towel and crawled back into bed, she fought off the irritating thought that had lurked at the back of her mind all day—that her professional ire had been fueled by deep personal resentment. So what if it was? How many times had he belittled and humiliated her in public and at home? Why should she care if, just this once, she didn't take the high road? Why should she care if Jack had gone from boyish happiness to thundering rage in a matter of hours? He left her. Again. Why should she care?

Because you have a moral compass, and Jack is soulless scum, her mom had sighed countless times over the years.

Sharon muffled a frustrated groan with the empty pillow beside her. Did having a moral compass condemn her to a life robbed of feeling the slightest satisfaction when a bastard got what he deserved? Why couldn't she be like Flynn, call everyone dirtbags and idiots and freaks, and not look any further? Sure, Jack was trying, which was new, but he only wanted a career and money for himself. He wasn't trying for her or the kids. Trying shouldn't phase her. Trying shouldn't incite false hope, as it had so many times.

You are the one who takes this relationship for granted. God, in the moment, it felt so good to finally say those words. Yet, here she was, tossing and turning in the bed he'd left empty for decades, worried she'd pushed too far. Fuck her moral compass. What good had it done her?

"She started it! How many times do I have to tell you?" Sharon had never heard Emily speak to Father Stan that way before, but as the flustered lieutenant stumbled into one of the rooms St. Joseph's used for instruction, her ten-year-old daughter stood with her hands in tiny white fists, stretching to reach Father Stan's height, face red from yelling.

"EmilyAmelia!" Sharon barked, slamming the door behind her. Even Ricky, blameless for once, flinched from behind his wall of Legos.

"Sharon, sorry to call you down here," Father Stan said quickly. Maybe he was a little afraid too. "Emily and Nikki got in an…altercation."

For the first time, Sharon noticed Emily's friend Nikki Andrews, sulking in a corner desk next to Christine, one of the daycare workers, on the other side of the room..

Emily whirled around, fierce in the face of her mother's ire when in full supply of her own. "She said—"

Sharon dropped her purse on the desk with such a force that the rickety piece of furniture creaked. "It sounds like you have said plenty today," she said. Turns out rearing her daughter to speak her mind but respect her elders produced this conundrum of fury. "Sit down." When Emily threw herself into the nearest desk and blubbered angrily, Sharon turned to Christine, who had been watching Emily and Ricky after school since Sharon joined St. Joseph's congregation three years before. "What happened?"

Christine stepped forward, leaving a sulking Nikki Andrews behind her. "I'm sorry to call you away from work, Mrs. Raydor—"

Sharon waved her off, not bothering to hide her impatience. "It's fine. I'm here. What happened?"

Eyeing Emily hesitantly, Christine moved closer to Sharon. Once she was within earshot of just Sharon and the priest, she started to explain in hushed tones. "Nikki told Emily that Jack only comes home when he wants to…and I'm just quoting, get in bed with you."

Sharon squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms around her abdomen. If Christine had kneed her in the gut, it wouldn't hurt like this. A ten-year-old doesn't say those things; parents do. Parents that invited Sharon and the kids over for at least two game nights a month since Emily and Nikki became friends. Before Jack left again last week, he had joined them. "And I suppose Emily did not respond well," Sharon sighed.

Christine twirled a strand of blonde hair around her finger and averted her eyes. "Emily took off one of her shoes and smacked Nikki across the face with it."

As horrified as Sharon was by her daughter's violent behavior, that small part of her that she spent most of her life suppressing was gratified that her daughter fought back. "Is she seriously hurt? Nikki?"

Christine shook her head. "Emily only got a couple of licks in."

Damn, the small voice said.

Sharon reached down to squeeze the young woman's hand. "Thank you for handling this and for calling me. I'm sorry I snapped at you." Christine timidly brushed off Sharon's apology, so Sharon simply thanked her again and turned to her daughter, who didn't bother to hide the tears soaking her red cheeks. When that sight proved too much to bear, Sharon glanced at Father Stan. "Can I take them now, please?"

Father Stan's cocked eyebrow and pursed lips were almost enough for Sharon to roll her eyes. Baring her soul to the same person for years had its drawbacks. "Emily and I will have a talk about this tomorrow," he assured her. "There's a lot going on. Maybe we'll talk about that too."

Sharon nodded once, unable to hold Father Stan's knowing gaze for long, and walked to Ricky. "Honey, please clean up the Legos. You and Em are coming to work with me."

"But Mama, I'm almost done with my wall—"

"Richard, pick up the blocks." When Ricky huffed at her and began throwing the blocks into the bin, Sharon bit back a weary sigh and held out her hand to Emily. "Come on. Get up. We'll talk on the way to Parker Center."

Emily rejected her mother's touch and stormed into the hallway. Ricky pushed past Sharon to catch up with his sister, and Emily allowed him to hold her hand to slow her down. She watched the two of them make their way down the hall, neither looking back to see if she was following. Thank God they had each other.

She couldn't fail them, or they wouldn't have much else.

She gave them as much as she could—her love, support, advice, and stability. Even now, it wasn't okay, like her mother promised, but this time, Jack's departure didn't shock or paralyze Sharon. No, this time, instead of her coworkers perceiving her as incompetent for not keeping her home in order, Jack was humiliated for bringing their relationship into her murder room. She held all the cards, and for the first time in twenty years, she wanted to use them, and she could. God damn it, she would. She swung her legs over the side of her bed and yanked her robe off the back of the door. Punching her arms through the sleeves, she tried to steady her breathing. It would do no good to burst into Rusty's room huffing and puffing. Not one more child would be disturbed by the ripples of Jack Raydor's constant break onto the surface of reality.

Easing Rusty's door open, Sharon held her breath, watching the lump in the bed rise and fall with his deep breaths. Sharon snuck to Rusty's open closet on the balls of her feet and sifted through her son's questionable but hand-picked plaid shirts and St. Joseph's uniforms until she felt Jack's suit. The bastard hadn't taken everything this time. He actually thought she would let him come back.

Suit balled up in her arms, Sharon slipped out of Rusty's room, and without a second thought or a pair of shoes, left her condo. The first time he bothered to leave clothes behind, she'd felt relieved. He'll come back, she told her father, hiding from her daughter's 12th birthday party and choking back a guttural cry. He's never left any of his things before. He'll come back, Daddy. A thought that once made every chance worth giving suddenly pointed her moral compass to a new true north.

She didn't want him to come back.

She had a family, and he was no longer a part of it.

These seemed fairly simple truths, she thought as she stuffed Jack's suit into a trash bag. They weren't even new ones. But for the first time, when confronted with what to do about Jack, she was thinking about herself. Not the kids, not her parents, not the church. Herself. Emily and Ricky could dictate their own relationship with their father, her parents had left this world confident in her ability to handle Jack, and any issue the church had could wait until she was actually ready to confront divorce. Until then, she would invest her time into permanently distancing herself from Jack Raydor. As she yanked open the fridge and dumped Jack's almond milk and butter substitutes on top of his crumpled suit, the first baby step felt guiltless.

As she stared at the mess of fabric and gluten-free, non-dairy goods mingling at the bottom of the bag, she laughed. She grabbed the scratch pad she kept by the refrigerator for grocery lists and scribbled out a hasty note.

"I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry."

Tearing the sheet off the pad, she threw it onto the sodden mess, tied the bag, and took it to the chute down the hall.

"Goodbye, Jack," she whispered, as she closed the chute.