At first, my husband seemed concerned.
For maybe three days.
Then everything changed.
Alan stopped asking about my recovery. He stopped sitting with me during appointments and stopped touching me unless someone else was around. My husband didn’t look at me, and on most days, he didn’t even speak to me.
To my shock and without consultation, Denise suddenly moved into our apartment with two giant suitcases.
I dared to hope that things between Alan and me would be better with her around, but not once did my MIL ask what I needed.
Every morning, Denise sorted laundry carefully, pulling out Alan’s clothes while leaving mine untouched in the basket.
She took his shirts, socks, trousers, and work clothes while mine stayed wrinkled and forgotten.
While I was still processing that, my MIL started cooking meals only for him.
She packed leftovers into containers with little stickers labeled:
“Don’t touch. Personally, for Alan.”
The first time I saw one of those stickers, I honestly thought it was a joke.
It wasn’t.
Most days, I survived on crackers, dry cereal, or bananas because those were the only things I could reach from the coffee table on my own.
One afternoon, I finally worked up the nerve to say something.
Alan was putting on his jacket to go out while I struggled to wheel myself toward the kitchen.
“Could you maybe help me make something before you leave?” I asked quietly.
He sighed immediately.
“There’s cereal.”
“Well, what do you want me to do, Clara?” my husband snapped. “I can’t stop living my life because your recovery’s taking longer than expected.”
Silence filled the apartment.
Even Denise looked up from her crossword puzzle.
Alan rubbed his forehead afterwards.
But he had.
I could tell.
After that, I stopped asking for things.
It felt easier than hearing disappointment in his voice every time I needed help.
The days blurred together after that.
Alan returned to work, to dinners with friends, and to smiling and laughing in photos that he posted online while I sat in the same corner of the living room, watching daylight move across the carpet.
Sometimes I’d hear Denise talking on the phone in the kitchen.
“She’s still in that chair,” or “I don’t know how long this is going to drag on.”
As if I weren’t 10 feet away.
Then one morning, I called my physical therapist after realizing I’d missed two appointments.
The receptionist sounded confused.
“Oh,” she said carefully, “your husband called and said you wanted to pause treatment.”
My stomach dropped.
“I never said that.”
Before I could say anything else, Alan walked into the room.
“Who’s that?” he asked sharply.
“The therapy clinic.”
His entire expression changed instantly.
