My mind flashed back to the day we met. He was charming, the perfect gentleman who swept me off my feet. I had given up my career as an accountant to build the traditional home he wanted. I cooked his meals, cleaned his house, and raised our daughter, Lily, while walking on eggshells to avoid his unpredictable temper. I had swallowed every insult, convincing myself the coldness was just stress, that the man I loved was still in there somewhere. But as he stood over my hospital bed, face twisted in disgust, the illusion shattered. I was just an employee who could no longer do her job.
“You are my husband,” I managed to say, a spark of anger finally igniting in my chest. “You are supposed to support me. I gave you everything, Ethan!” His eyes narrowed. “Support you? You are a burden, Nancy. A heavy, expensive burden. And now you talk back?” Before I could react, he lunged. His hands, the hands that used to hold mine, clenched into tight fists. He aimed for my stomach, striking me hard. A shockwave of agony ripped through my already battered body. I gasped, the air fleeing my lungs, unable to scream, unable to defend myself. I curled instinctively, but the casts on my legs anchored me to the mattress.
