I remember the hospital smell—sterile, sharp, unforgiving. I remember the beep of machines and the way his hand trembled in mine. Most of all, I remember the doctor’s voice when he said the words that changed our lives forever.
“He will never walk again.”
I was still processing that sentence when my parents arrived.
They stood stiffly at the foot of his hospital bed, sympathy already fading into calculation. On the drive home that night, they didn’t ask how he was doing. They asked how I was feeling.
“This is not what you need,” my mother said, her voice calm but final.
“You’re young,” my father added. “You can find someone healthy. Successful. Don’t ruin your life.”
My parents were respected attorneys in our city. Reputation mattered. Appearances mattered. To them, my boyfriend became a burden overnight.
I told them I loved him.
They told me love wasn’t enough.
When I refused to leave him, they followed through on their threats. They cut me off financially. Took away my college fund. Closed every door they could.
And then they told me not to contact them again.
I packed a bag and went straight to him.
