He took a breath, as if being calm and logical.

“If you want me to stay,” he said, “and take care of you, I want to be paid. A thousand a week.”

I laughed, convinced it was a joke. He didn’t.

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You’ve earned more than I have for years. You’ve been carrying us. Now it’s your turn to pay up. I’m not your nurse.”

Those words burned themselves into my memory.

“I’m your wife,” I said. “I got hit by a car. And you want me to pay you to stay?”

He shrugged.
“Think of it as paying for a caregiver. We’d pay a stranger, right? At least with me you know who’s here. I won’t resent it if I’m getting something in return.”

“Do you resent me now?” I asked.

He didn’t respond.

I wanted to scream. To throw something. To tell him to leave. But I couldn’t even get out of bed alone.

I couldn’t transfer to my chair without help.

My mother lived in another state. My father was gone. My sister worked nights and helped when she could, but she couldn’t move in yet. I was terrified. So I swallowed my pride.

“Fine,” I said. “A thousand a week.”

He nodded like we’d finalized a business deal.

“Transfer it every Friday,” he said. “That way it’s simple.”

Simple.

That first Friday, I sent the money from my savings. He checked his phone, smiled, and patted my arm.

“Thanks,” he said. “Now, what do you need?”

What I received for that money was the bare minimum.

He rushed through showers, sighing, saying, “Can you hurry up? I’ve got stuff to do.”

He dropped meals in front of me without asking if I needed help.

He left me alone for hours. When I used the call button, he ignored it and later said, “I was busy,” or “You have to stop acting like I’m your servant.”

I started feeling guilty for needing water.

He was constantly on his phone. Always texting. Always turning the screen away.

“Who are you talking to?” I asked once.

“Guys from work,” he replied. “I’m allowed to have a life.”

He started leaving more often. I’d hear the door slam while I sat stuck in my chair.

One night, I woke up thirsty. He wasn’t in bed. I heard his voice in the living room. I pressed the call button. Nothing. I called his phone—it rang nearby.

He let it ring.

The next morning, his phone buzzed while he showered. I didn’t go searching. The screen lit up on its own.