Before the accident, I was the quiet engine that kept our life moving forward, the one who noticed what needed to be done and simply did it without waiting for applause. I paid most of the bills, not because my husband demanded it outright, but because it always seemed easier to shoulder the responsibility than to argue about it. I cooked our meals, cleaned the apartment, handled doctor appointments, renewal notices, taxes, insurance forms, and every tedious phone call that came with adulthood. When something broke, I scheduled the repair. When money got tight, I rearranged budgets and picked up extra hours. Whenever he said, “Can you just handle this? I’m terrible with paperwork,” I smiled and said yes.

When he wanted to switch jobs, or quit one entirely to “figure things out,” I was the one at the kitchen table late at night with spreadsheets and calculators, making sure rent would still be paid. I encouraged him when he doubted himself. I reassured him when he failed. I never kept score because I truly believed that marriage was about teamwork, about stepping in where the other faltered and trusting that, eventually, the balance would return. We had been together for ten years, and I thought we were solid in the quiet, unglamorous way that really mattered.