The hospital ceiling had exactly 47 tiles. I knew because I’d counted them three times between painkillers, waiting for the discharge papers that would send me home with a broken leg, two fractured ribs, and orders to stay in bed for six weeks.
Two days earlier, a drunk driver had turned my Tuesday commute into a slow-motion crash of glass and metal. I was 35, alive, and, according to the surgeon, « very lucky. » Lucky felt like a strong word for someone who couldn’t reach her own water cup.
The hospital ceiling had exactly 47 tiles.
Still, I told myself I had the important thing. David. Eight years of marriage, one gorgeous four-year-old daughter named Abbie, and a suburban house with a squeaky third stair. Rock solid.
Or that’s what I’d been telling myself.
David had played the devoted husband and doting father perfectly.
But apparently, « in sickness and in health » had an expiration date.
I had the important thing.
