Two months before my wedding, I broke my leg.
Everyone told me how lucky I was to have Adam.
My mother said it. The nurse said it. Even our neighbor Denise said it when she dropped off a casserole and watched him tuck a blanket around my cast like he was the gentlest man alive
For a while, I believed them too.
I believed I had chosen the kind of man who would stand beside me when life became inconvenient. I believed the broken leg was just a painful interruption before the happiest chapter of my life.
Then one quiet night showed me who Adam really was when nobody was watching.
The first afternoon home from the hospital, I lay in our bedroom with my leg propped on two pillows I had not arranged myself. The cast felt heavy and foreign, like it belonged to someone else. On the nightstand sat my wedding planning binder, still open to a page covered in notes about flowers, seating charts, and final fittings.
Beside it was our engagement photo.
Adam was kissing my cheek beneath string lights.
I looked happy in that picture.
Safe.
