Chapter 6 - The Weight of "No"
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Caleb took another aggressive step closer to the bed. His jaw was set in a stubborn, terrifying line. He was entirely accustomed to me folding under his pressure. He expected me to cry, apologize for being a burden, and somehow magically drag my broken body out of the hospital bed just to appease him.
Then, he reached out and violently yanked the thin, white hospital blanket away from my body, exposing my heavy, casted legs to the cold, sterile air.
"I said, get up," Caleb commanded, clamping his large hand tightly around my uninjured upper arm.
He pulled.
Blinding, white-hot pain tore through my shattered ribs as the massive weight of both casts shifted awkwardly across the mattress. I couldn't breathe. The agony was so intense it felt like the air had been violently punched out of my lungs. The heart monitor beside me immediately began sounding faster, the steady beeps escalating into a rapid, panicked warning.
But Caleb didn't let go. He tightened his agonizing grip.
For most of our marriage, I would have begged for his forgiveness. I would have found a way to blame myself for his anger. But something fundamental inside my soul had shifted during that horrific car crash. I had survived the shattering glass. I had survived three weeks of grueling medical procedures, endless sleepless nights, and learning how to breathe without sending actual fire through my chest.
I looked into his angry eyes, gathered every single ounce of strength left in my broken body, and for the first time in eleven years, I answered him.
May you like
"No."
Caleb completely froze. His hand went slack for a fraction of a second. He clearly had not expected me to refuse him.
