Over the next six months, caring for Adrian became routine.
I helped him dress.
Changed bandages.
Managed medications.
Read books aloud whenever his migraines became unbearable.
And slowly, an unexpected friendship grew between us.
He never treated me like an employee.
He treated me like a person.
One rainy Thursday evening, I was standing in the kitchen scrubbing coffee from my sleeve when I heard the soft hum of his wheelchair.
I turned around.
Adrian sat in the doorway watching me.
“Marry me.”
The mug nearly slipped from my hands.
“What?”
“Marry me.”
I stared at him.
“Adrian, I’m old enough to be—”
“You’re not my mother,” he interrupted calmly.
His eyes never left mine.
“I want you to marry me.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Why would you even ask me that?”
“You’ll never have to worry about money again.”
His words hit harder than they should have.
Because all I could see was Lisa.
Lisa lying motionless in that hospital bed.
Lisa running out of time.
I should have refused.
Every sensible part of me knew that.
But desperation makes people consider impossible things.
That night, I sat beside my daughter’s hospital bed.
I held her hand.
And I cried.
Then I said yes.
