We were not rich or glamorous, and we argued about grocery brands and clipped coupons while celebrating tiny victories like finding twenty dollars in an old coat pocket.
Every morning she fixed my tie before I left for work, smiling like she was sending a king out instead of a tired account manager buried in spreadsheets.
Then one rainy Thursday evening on Interstate 71, everything we called normal shattered in seconds when a truck lost control and slammed across lanes, leaving twisted metal and shattered glass behind.
When I reached her in the hospital, half her body lay still, and the doctors eventually said the words that changed everything, spinal damage, uncertain recovery, and a future that would cost more than we could imagine.
She cried once at three in the morning under harsh lights and whispered, “Why can’t I feel them,” and I held her hand and promised we would get through it, believing every word because I had not yet been tested by time.
For weeks I tried to be strong, sleeping in stiff chairs, arguing with insurance, learning medications, and bringing her terrible coffee she pretended to enjoy.
She fought through therapy with quiet strength, apologizing for needing help as if she was the burden instead of the reason I should have stood taller.
When we came home to Dayton, Ohio, real life began, filled with ramps, pill schedules, bills, exhaustion, and nights that felt endless. Our bedroom changed into a place of careful positioning and antiseptic smells, and I began sleeping on the edge like I was afraid to move.
