For eight years, I was everything—wife, nurse, mother, provider. When my husband David was paralyzed in a car accident, I gave up my career and rebuilt our lives from the ashes. I woke before dawn, worked full-time, cared for our children, and tended to David’s every need. I believed love could survive anything. I believed in us.
Then came the miracle: David moved his toe. Months of therapy followed, and I watched him stand, then walk again. I sobbed with joy, thinking we’d finally reached the light. I imagined renewal—our family whole again, our love stronger than ever. I was wrong.
One week after his first steps, David handed me divorce papers. Coldly, he said he wanted freedom. He’d been having an affair—since before the accident. My sacrifices meant nothing. Worse, he’d siphoned money from our account to fund her comfort. Perfumes, dinners, jewelry—all bought with my sweat. I was shattered.
But karma came swiftly. The affair was exposed in court. I won custody and support. His mistress left him. Today, David lives alone, bitter and broken. I live wiser, stronger, and free. I survived betrayal wrapped in devotion—and I’ll never apologize for the love I gave.
