Mercy General Hospital, downtown Chicago, was unnervingly quiet at 3 a.m.
The whole white building felt like a giant beast, asleep with its mouth slightly open. Only the faint green hallway lights and the cold, flickering EXIT sign stained the walls with a sickly glow. The smell of antiseptic, bandages, and old linens clung to the air—one of those scents that, if you breathe it too long, makes your head heavy and your lungs tighten.
I sat hunched on a folding chair beside the bed, my back half-propped against the wall, half suspended in midair. My spine ached like someone was twisting it by hand. But I didn’t dare move much. Even the smallest creak from the chair could make the man in the bed frown and groan.
That man was my husband, Michael.
He lay perfectly still, both legs wrapped in thick white casts and suspended in a traction frame—a tangled mess of ropes and pulleys. He looked like a specimen fate had decided to put on display.
Michael let out a soft moan, his voice thin and broken. Sweat dotted his forehead. His eyebrows pulled into one dark line.
I shot up instantly, my own legs so numb they felt like they didn’t belong to me. I poured a glass of warm water, stuck a straw in it, and held it to his lips.
“Mike, drink some water,” I whispered. “It’ll help with the dryness. Just sip slowly.”
He struggled to open his eyes.
Those eyes used to melt my heart with their kindness. Now they were bloodshot, staring at me with a mixture of guilt and weakness.
“Emily… this is too hard on you,” he rasped. “I was so careless on the road, and now you have to take time off work to care for me. I feel so useless.”
I managed a faint smile, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Don’t be silly. We’re husband and wife. The stronger one helps the weaker one. You’re laid up now, so I’ll take care of you. If it were me, you’d do the same. This is our life, not someone else’s. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
I used a tissue to wipe a few drops of water from the corner of his mouth.
But my heart still felt that deep, sharp pang.
Three days ago, Michael had a car accident on his way home. The Chicago police report concluded it was brake failure—his car slammed into a median. He was lucky to be alive.
But the doctor, after looking at the X-rays, had sighed and told me, “Severe fractures with nerve compression. You need to prepare yourselves. There’s a chance he may be in a wheelchair for a long time.”
For a man whose career was just starting to stabilize, those words weren’t just bad news. They were a door slamming shut.
And for me—Emily, thirty years old, a forensic accountant—it felt like someone had kicked down the house I’d spent nearly ten years building, brick by brick.
Our careers. Our home. Our plans for kids. All the small dreams we’d sketched out together.
Paused in a single night.
For three days, I’d barely slept.
During the day, I sat in that chair by his bed, monitoring his IV drip and his medications while juggling emails and reports from my firm on my laptop. At night, I woke every couple of hours to help him shift, wipe him down, and keep his bedding clean—careful that the casts stayed dry.
Every nerve in my body felt stretched tight, like a violin string ready to snap.
“Where’s Chloe?” Michael asked after a few sips, his eyes scanning the room. He tried to sound casual, but his gaze swept quickly before landing on the empty chair on the other side of the bed.
“She went home to make you some broth,” I said, adjusting the flow of his IV. “She said she’ll bring it tomorrow to help you get your strength back.”
“I had to practically force her to go,” I added. “She needed sleep.”
Chloe was Michael’s younger cousin. Fresh out of college, new to the city, crashing with us until she found her own place. She was quick on her feet and sweet-talking in a way that made people relax.
For the past three days, she’d been a lifesaver—running errands, handling paperwork, picking up meals. Without her help, I probably would’ve folded.
Thinking about it, I felt genuinely grateful.
“Don’t let her work too hard,” Michael murmured, closing his eyes. “And you need to rest too. You look paler than the patient.”
I was about to tease him—anything to lighten the mood—when the door creaked open.
A soft rolling sound followed. Wheels on tile.
The woman who entered was the head nurse, Sarah.
She was in her forties. Not glamorous, not warm. Her face was always impassive, like someone who’d seen so much life and death that surprise had burned out of her years ago. She spoke little and worked efficiently, keeping a professional distance from patients’ families.
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