He cut me off.
“Temporary still means months. Months of me wiping you, lifting you, doing everything. I can’t do that for free.”
I stared at him.
“For free?”
He took a breath, as if being calm and logical.
“If you want me to stay,” he said, “and take care of you, I want to be paid. A thousand a week.”
I laughed, convinced it was a joke. He didn’t.
“You’re serious?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’ve earned more than I have for years. You’ve been carrying us. Now it’s your turn to pay up. I’m not your nurse.”
Those words burned themselves into my memory.
“I’m your wife,” I said. “I got hit by a car. And you want me to pay you to stay?”
He shrugged.
“Think of it as paying for a caregiver. We’d pay a stranger, right? At least with me you know who’s here. I won’t resent it if I’m getting something in return.”
“Do you resent me now?” I asked.
