His arm buckled, and he collapsed hard against the floor.
My heart stopped. Then he sucked in a sharp breath and pushed himself up again, jaw clenched.
I dropped to my knees. “What are you doing, honey? Talk to me.”
He tried to laugh, but it sounded broken. “Seems like I’m making a mess. Like I’m trying to…” His eyes darted to Mom.
“This is what your life will look like, Mikayla. Struggle, pain, always picking up the pieces. This is what I’ve been trying to prevent.”
I turned to Mom. “No, this is what it looks like to fight for someone you love.”
Rowan stared at the floor. “I wanted to surprise you. I promised you a first dance at our reception. I thought I could figure it out. Be enough for you.”
My throat ached. “You are enough. You’ve always been enough.”
He shook his head. “I wanted you to have what you deserve. Not half a moment. Not something… adjusted.”
I cupped his face. “You think I married you for a dance? I married you. Not your legs. Not what you lost. You. The man who tries, even when it hurts.”
His shoulders dropped. “I didn’t want you to regret it. I didn’t want your mom to be right.”
Mom stood silent, her face shifting—pride, maybe shame.
That night, after cleaning him up and bandaging his hand, Rowan lay beside me.
“I meant what I said earlier. About the dance.”
“I know.”
“I wanted people to see us. Not what’s missing, but what’s still here.”
I traced his arm. “Then show them. But not alone.”
He glanced at me. “You’d help?”
I snorted. “I’m your wife. You’re stuck with me.”
A small smile broke through. “Good.”
The next morning, he rolled into the living room with the prosthetics on his lap.
“Okay. Round two.”
I crossed my arms. “You sure you don’t want coffee first?”
“I’m already nervous. Let’s not add caffeine.”
