Three years ago, that accident… Chloe had swerved to avoid a child and crashed into a guardrail. I was a witness. I had even called an ambulance for her. Yet Daniel thought it was me who had hit her?
A nurse entered, seeing my pale face, and sighed:
“Your husband was just here. He signed your discharge papers, said it would be easier to take care of you at home.”
Daniel took me home. He didn’t say a word in the car. I tried to explain the truth about the accident, but he only gave me a cold glance.
When we arrived, he pointed at the storage room.
“You’ll live here. The master bedroom is for Chloe to rest. You reek of medicine; don’t let the smell upset her.”
The storage room? In our marital home, I was to live in the storage room?
Through the crack in the door, I watched him dismantle the massage chair I had hesitated to buy for myself and carefully set it up beside Chloe’s bed.
He held a bowl of soup, feeding her spoon by spoon, so tenderly that my heart shattered.
I remembered the early days of our marriage, when I had a high fever. Daniel had held me all night, crying, saying I was his sky—that the sky could never fall.
Now, his sky was Chloe.