Then I heard a dull, heavy noise at the end of the corridor. And a dragging sound.
Then another muffled sound, clearer this time, followed by rapid breathing, as if someone were running a marathon on the spot.
My skin prickled.
"Rowan?" I called, my heart in my throat. "Darling?"
Silence.
I heard a muffled noise at the end of the corridor.
I crawled over, forgetting my shopping. "Rowan, are you alright?"
There was a pause. Then, from behind the bedroom door: "I'm fine, Mik. Don't come in."
The door was locked.
I kept knocking. "Rowan, open up, please. You look hurt."
He answered, but his words were broken and breathless. "Just, just one minute, baby. I said I'm fine."
I pressed my forehead against the door, trying to listen. I could hear him fumbling, dragging his feet, and muttering under his breath.
"Rowan, please open the door. You look hurt."
"Rowan, I'm serious. I'm coming in," I announced, searching for the emergency key in the entryway drawer. My hands groped as I unlocked the door.
At that moment, I heard the front door open, with Mom's heels clicking on the tiles.
"Mikayla? I brought the ziti! Is Rowan... wait, what's going on?"
I didn't answer. I opened the bedroom door. Mom followed, a casserole dish in her hand, her eyes wide.
What I saw made my knees buckle.
I heard the front door open.
***
Rowan clung to the bed frame, sweat dripping down his face, his arms trembling. His new prosthetic legs, elegant but alien, were fastened, and his body was curled up between the bed and the dresser.
His right hand was raw and slashed. He looked up, surprised and caught in the act.
"I told you not to come in," he managed, his voice cracking.
Mom jumped. "Oh, darling..."
His arm gave way.
Before I could reach him, his body fell hard to the ground with a sickening thud.
"I told you not to come in."
« Rowan — »
For a second, he didn't move.
My heart stopped.
Then he took a deep breath and stood up, his jaw clenched as if he refused to stay on the ground.
I fell to my knees beside him. "What are you doing, darling? Talk to me, Rowan."
He tried to laugh, but his laughter was broken. "It looks like I'm making a mess. Like I'm trying to..." He stopped, his eyes fixed on Mom.
"Talk to me, Rowan."
"That's it, that's what your life will be like, Mikayla. The struggle, the pain, and always picking up the pieces. That's what I tried to prevent."
I turned around, the heat rising. "No, Mom. This is what it feels like to fight for someone you love."
Rowan looked at the floor. "I wanted to surprise you. I promised you a first dance at our reception, remember? And we still have a few days before our delayed reception... I thought I could manage. And be enough for you."
My throat hurts. "You are enough. You always have been."
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He shook his head stubbornly. "I wanted you to have what you deserved. I wanted you to have your dance. I didn't want you to look back and wish you had married someone else."
"That's what I tried to do."
I reached my hand out towards his face, forcing him to look at me. "Hey, don't do that."
"Do what?" he asked.
"Speaking as if you weren't already enough."
He shook his head, still as stubborn as ever. "You deserve everything there is to know, Mikayla. Not half a moment. Not something... adjusted."
My mother watched us, silent. Something changed on her face, pride, or perhaps even shame.
I let out a sigh, half-laughing, half-frustrated. "You think I married you for a dance?"
"Hey. Don't do that."
"That's not what I..."
"Do you think I'm here keeping score?" I gently interrupted him.
He blinked, taken aback. "Mik..."
"I married you," I said, more softly now. "Not your legs. Not what you lost. You. The man who tries, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts."
My husband's shoulders slumped a little.
"I didn't want you to look back and regret it," he said. "I didn't want your mother to be right."
My husband's shoulders slumped.
I glanced down the hallway where my mother had fallen silent. "She doesn't get to decide what my life looks like."
He let out a tired little laugh. "She's not subtle."
"It's a word for it."
That evening, after we cleaned Rowan up and bandaged his hand, he lay down next to me, staring at the ceiling.
"I was thinking about what I said earlier," he murmured. "About dancing."
" I know. "
"I wanted people to see us," he continued. "Not what's missing, but what's still there."
I drew a line along his arm. "Then show them. But not alone."
"I was thinking about what I said earlier."
He glanced at me. "Would you help me?"
I sniffed softly. "I'm your wife. You're stuck with me."
A small smile appeared. "Good."
***
The next morning, he rolled around the living room with the prosthetics on his knees.
"OK," he said, as if bracing himself for the impact. "Round two."
I crossed my arms. "Are you sure you don't want a coffee first?"
"I'm already nervous. Let's not add any caffeine."
He looked at me.
***
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