For eight years, my day started before dawn. I lifted my husband from bed, washed him, fed him, then got two kids ready for school and ran to work. Doctors said he might never walk again. I held his hand and promised, “I’m not going anywhere.” I meant it—even when my back screamed, even when bills stacked up, even when sleep felt like a rumor.
Then the miracle happened. One morning in rehab, he stood up—shaking, sweating—and took three steps. He smiled like a man reborn. I cried so hard I tasted salt. The kids cheered. For a few bright minutes, I thought we’d finally made it through.
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