Cold air moved across my legs as the casts were exposed.
Then his fingers closed around my upper arm.
I reached for the bedrail, but my hands were shaking so hard that my wedding ring tapped against the metal.
“Caleb, stop.”
He pulled.
Pain tore through my ribs as the weight of both casts dragged across the mattress.
The movement sent a sharp pressure through my hips and up my spine.
My body could not follow the direction he was forcing it to go.
The monitor’s steady rhythm broke into rapid warning tones.
“Get out of this bed,” he hissed. “I’m not paying for a wife who can’t make herself useful.”
For eleven years, I had measured every disagreement by how angry Caleb might become.
I had apologized when I was not wrong.
I had lowered my voice when he raised his.
I had rearranged plans, hidden disappointment, and accepted blame simply because surrender ended arguments faster.
Something inside me finally stopped bending.
I did not scream at him.
I did not strike him.
I did not unleash every word I had swallowed during eleven years of marriage.
I wrapped both hands around the rail and said, “No.”
It was one word.
