When I left the hospital, I thought the hardest part would be learning to walk again. I had no idea the real pain waiting for me had nothing to do with my injuries.
The hospital ceiling had exactly 47 tiles. I knew because I’d counted them three times between painkillers, waiting for the discharge papers that would send me home with a broken leg, two fractured ribs, and orders to stay in bed for six weeks.
Two days earlier, a drunk driver had turned my Tuesday commute into a slow-motion crash of glass and metal. I was 35, alive, and, according to the surgeon, “very lucky.” Lucky felt like a strong word for someone who couldn’t reach her own water cup.
The hospital ceiling had exactly 47 tiles.
Still, I told myself I had the important thing. David. Eight years of marriage, one gorgeous four-year-old daughter named Abbie, and a suburban house with a squeaky third stair. Rock solid.
Or that’s what I’d been telling myself.
David had played the devoted husband and doting father perfectly.
But apparently, “in sickness and in health” had an expiration date.
I had the important thing.
Lying there with nothing to do but think, small memories started nudging at me.
David bailed on daycare pickup three times last month. My mother-in-law (MIL), Eleanor’s Christmas comment about how Abbie “thankfully” had my husband’s eyes. The bank alert last spring to a transfer I didn’t recognize, and David’s easy shrug.
“Just helping Mom with something, babe.”
I always let such things go. Family peacekeeper, party of one.
Memories started nudging at me.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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