On the twenty-first day, he finally showed up.
He stood at the foot of my bed with his arms folded, jaw tight, eyes cold. No “How are you?”
“Do you have any idea how much of a burden you’ve become?” he said.
I stared at him. “Henry… I was hit by a car.”
He rolled his eyes. “My mom’s birthday is this weekend. I need you home. Stop the drama. Get up and cook.”
“I can’t walk.”
“Sell your jewelry,” he snapped, stepping closer. “You’ve got enough to cover this mess. I’m not spending another dime on you.”
My chest tightened. “You’re my husband. You’re supposed to—”
“Support you?” he barked. “You’re useless right now, Amy.”
Something inside me fractured. “I gave up my job for you. I raised our daughter while you jumped from one paycheck to the next. And now you call me useless?”
His face flushed red. “You think you can talk back to me?”
Before I could react, his hand grabbed my forearm. His fingers pressed into tender skin as he yanked, dragging me toward the edge of the bed. My ribs screamed. The room tilted. My casts scraped against the sheets.
“Henry, stop—please,” I gasped.
He leaned close, his breath hot with anger. “You’re going to embarrass me,” he hissed, pulling harder.
That’s when the door flew open behind him.
Henry froze. His grip loosened. And for the first time in years, I felt the air shift—like someone stronger had just stepped into the room.
The door didn’t just open—it slammed into the wall. Henry turned, still gripping my forearm, and for a brief moment fear flashed across his face.
A hospital security guard entered first. Behind him stood my dad, Eric. A nurse followed, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene—me half-dragged toward the edge of the bed, my casts scraping the sheets, Henry’s fingers digging into my arm.
“What’s happening here?” the nurse demanded.
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