I paid most of the bills without complaint. I cooked, cleaned, scheduled appointments, made calls, handled paperwork—everything my husband didn’t want to deal with. Whenever he said, “Can you just handle this, babe? I’m bad with paperwork,” I did. When he wanted to switch jobs or “take a break to figure things out,” I sat down with spreadsheets and made it work. I picked up extra hours. I encouraged him.

I never kept score.

We’d been together ten years. I truly believed marriage was teamwork, that things would balance out eventually. I thought we were solid.Then a car accident shattered that illusion.

I don’t remember the impact—just a green light and then a hospital ceiling. I survived, but my legs didn’t come out unscathed. Not permanently damaged, the doctors said, but weak enough that I ended up in a wheelchair. Months of physical therapy. Months of help. Transfers, bathing, moving around. No independence for a while.

I hated every word of it.

I had always been the helper, not the one who needed help.When I came home from the hospital, I told myself this was just a hard chapter. Temporary. The kind couples get through together. I’d grown up watching my mother care for my father after an injury, never making him feel like a burden. That was love to me.

The first week home, my husband was distant. He helped me shower, made food, then disappeared into his office or left the house. I told myself he was stressed. That this was new for him too.

About a week in, he sat on the edge of the bed with that unmistakable “serious talk” posture.