Before my accident, I carried most of our life on my shoulders.
I paid the bills. I cooked the meals. I handled doctor’s appointments, car repairs, birthdays, and grocery lists. When my husband said he was burned out and wanted to “try something new” or take a break from work, I nodded and told him we’d figure it out together. That’s what marriage was to me—teamwork, not a scoreboard.
Ten years together. I truly believed we were solid.
Then came the accident.
One rainy afternoon, a truck ran a red light. I remember the screech of tires, the violent impact, and then nothing. When I woke up in the hospital, my body felt like it didn’t belong to me anymore. Broken bones. Crushed nerves. Weeks of surgeries and pain.
I survived—but I couldn’t walk.
The doctors were hopeful. They said I would walk again. Six to nine months, maybe longer. Physical therapy. Patience. Determination.
Until then, I’d need help.
Help getting out of bed. Help bathing. Help moving from my wheelchair to the couch. Help with the most basic, humiliating tasks.
I thought my husband would step up without question.
Instead, he gave me an ultimatum.
