He took a breath, feeling calm and logical.
“If you want me to stay,” he said, “and take care of you, I want to be paid. A thousand a week.”
I laughed, convinced it was a joke. He didn’t.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes,” he replied. “You’ve earned more than me for years. You’ve carried us. Now it’s your turn to pay. I’m not your nurse.”
These words have been etched into my memory.
“I’m your wife,” I said. “I was hit by a car. And you want me to pay you to stay?”
He shrugged.
“Think of it like paying for a caregiver. You’d pay a stranger, wouldn’t you? At least with me, you know who’s there. I won’t hold it against him if I get something in return.”
“Are you mad at me now?” I asked.
He did not reply.
I wanted to scream. To shout something. To tell him to leave. But I couldn’t even get out of bed on my own.
