So when I came home for the first time in my wheelchair, I told myself, “This is our hard chapter. We’ll get through it together.”
That first week, my husband felt distant.
Quiet. Short-tempered. I told myself he was just stressed. He helped me eat, shower, then disappeared into his office or left the house.
About a week later, he sat on the edge of the bed. His expression was pure “serious talk time.”
“Listen,” he said. “We need to be realistic about this.”
My stomach sank.
“Okay… realistic how?”
He rubbed his face.
“You’re going to need a lot of help. Like… a lot. All day. Every day. And I didn’t sign up to be a nurse.”
“You signed up to be my husband,” I said.
“Yeah, but this is different,” he replied. “This is like a full-time job. I’m going to have to put my life on hold. My career. My social life. Everything.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“I know it’s hard. I don’t want this either. But it’s temporary. The doctors think—”
