"Yes," he replied. "You've earned more than me for years. You've carried us. Now it's your turn to pay. I'm not your nurse."
These words have been etched into my memory.
"I'm your wife," I said. "I was hit by a car. And you want me to pay you to stay?"
He shrugged.
"Think of it like paying for a caregiver. You'd pay a stranger, wouldn't you? At least with me, you know who's there. I won't hold it against him if I get something in return."
"Are you mad at me now?" I asked.
He did not reply.
I wanted to scream. To shout something. To tell him to leave. But I couldn't even get out of bed on my own.
I couldn't transfer to my chair without help.
My mother lived in another state. My father had left. My sister worked nights and helped when she could, but she couldn't move in yet. I was terrified. So I swallowed my pride.
"Very well," I said. "A thousand a week."
He nodded as if we had just finalized a trade agreement.
"Transfer it every Friday," he said. "That way, it's simple."
Simple.
That first Friday, I sent the money from my savings. He looked at his phone, smiled, and patted my arm.
"Thank you," he said. "So, what do you need?"
What I received for that money was the bare minimum.
He rushed into the showers, sighing and saying, "Can you hurry up? I have things to do."
He placed meals in front of me without asking if I needed help.
He left me alone for hours. When I used the call button, he ignored it and then said, "I was busy" or "You need to stop acting like I'm your servant."
I started to feel guilty about needing water.
He was constantly on his phone. Always sending himself messages. Always turning the screen.
"Who are you talking to?" I asked once.
"The guys at work," he replied. "I have the right to have a life."
He started leaving more often. I could hear the door slamming while I was stuck in my chair.
