My voice sounded weak, but the words were true.
“You’re my husband. You’re supposed to help me.”
Caleb looked at me without a trace of concern.
“Help you?” he said. “You’re nothing but a burden.”
The monitor continued beeping beside me.
Not a patient.
Not his wife.
Just a burden.
His statement settled over the room with the weight of a final decision.
There was no apology hiding behind his anger and no fear disguised as frustration.
He meant it.
He believed my injuries had reduced my value because I could no longer cook, clean, organize his life, or make things easier for him.
I thought of Emma’s drawing taped to the wall beside my bed.
She had drawn our house with a crooked roof, three stick figures, and a bright yellow sun in the corner.
COME HOME SOON, MOMMY, she had written in uneven letters.
