After a brutal car crash, I was rushed into the emergency room. My husband stormed in moments later, furious. “Cut the drama!” he yelled. “I’m not wasting money on this nonsense—get out of that bed!” He grabbed me, trying to yank me off the mattress. When I resisted, he drove both fists into my stomach. And what happened next… changed everything.

It was a typical Tuesday evening, and I had just finished grocery shopping. My mind was preoccupied with the long list of tasks waiting for me at home: preparing dinner, checking Lily’s homework, and tidying up the kitchen. As I crossed the street with bags in hand, I never saw the car coming. The screech of tires and the blaring of the horn were the last things I heard before everything went black.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed, my body aching and immobilized. Both of my legs were in casts, and every breath sent sharp pain through my ribs. A nurse stood beside me, explaining that I had been hit by a speeding car. My injuries were severe, and my recovery would take months. In those first few days, I felt utterly helpless. Tasks I had taken for granted—sitting up, eating, even reaching for a glass of water—were impossible without assistance. My parents, Eleanor and Richard, became my lifeline, visiting me daily and taking care of Lily while I was confined to the hospital. They brought me meals, reassured me that Lily was doing fine, and tried to lift my spirits with their constant support.