After spending a month in the hospital, I finally returned home. When my husband went upstairs, my 12-year-old daughter ran up to me and whispered, “Mom, you need to know what he was really doing.”
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On the day I was discharged, my husband, Wesley brought my sweater and helped me into the car. He reminded me not to carry anything heavy.
“Let me get the door,” he said as I stepped out of the car.
She was quieter than usual.
Four weeks earlier, a driver ran a red light and hit me on my way home from work. I’d needed surgery for a broken pelvis and spent much of the month learning to walk again.
Wesley handled things at home while I recovered. He took our daughter, Hannah, to school and visited whenever he could.
We’d been married for 15 years, and I’d always been able to count on him.
