When I left the hospital, I believed the hardest challenge ahead would be learning to walk again. I had no idea the deepest pain waiting at home would have nothing to do with my injuries.
The hospital ceiling contained exactly forty-seven tiles.
I knew because I had counted them three times between doses of pain medication while waiting for discharge papers that would send me home with a broken leg, two fractured ribs, and strict instructions to remain in bed for six weeks.
Two days earlier, a drunk driver had transformed my ordinary Tuesday commute into a slow-motion collision of glass and twisted metal.
I was thirty-five, alive, and, according to the surgeon, “very lucky.”
Lucky seemed like an exaggerated description for someone unable to reach her own cup of water.
Still, I reminded myself that I had what mattered most.
David.
Eight years of marriage.
Our beautiful four-year-old daughter, Abbie.
A suburban house with a third stair that squeaked.
Everything was solid.
At least that was what I had always told myself.
David had performed the role of devoted husband and loving father perfectly.
Apparently, “in sickness and in health” came with an expiration date.
With nothing to do except stare at the ceiling, small memories began returning.
David had missed daycare pickup three times the previous month.
My mother-in-law Eleanor had commented at Christmas that Abbie “thankfully” inherited David’s eyes.
Then there was the unfamiliar bank transfer alert last spring and David’s effortless shrug when I questioned it.
I had dismissed each moment.
I was the family peacekeeper.
A department of one.
