I’m a 35-year-old woman, and before the accident, I was the glue holding my marriage together.

I covered most of our expenses.

I cooked. I cleaned.

I managed every appointment, every phone call, every moment of “Can you just handle this, babe? I’m bad with paperwork.”

Whenever my husband wanted to change jobs or “take a break and figure things out,” I sat down with spreadsheets and made it possible. I worked extra hours. I encouraged him. I never kept track of who gave more. I believed marriage was about teamwork and that things would balance out in time.

We’d been together for ten years. I truly believed our relationship was strong.

Then I was in a serious car accident.

I don’t remember the crash itself—just a green traffic light, then a hospital ceiling.

I survived, but my legs didn’t recover easily. They weren’t permanently paralyzed, but they were weak enough that I needed a wheelchair. The doctors were hopeful.