Eight months ago, I had thought my biggest problem was learning to live on Social Security after Robert died.
Robert.
Even thinking his name still brought a twist of grief, three years after the funeral, three years after the casserole dishes and condolences and the way the world moved on while I stayed stuck.
His life insurance had barely covered the funeral.
Social Security didn’t exactly fund miracles.
Then the accident happened.
On a Tuesday, of course. Isn’t it always a Tuesday when your world falls apart? A day that feels like nothing, until it becomes the dividing line between before and after.
I’d been coming home from the grocery store, arms full of bags because I was too proud to use the cart like other old ladies. I could see myself clearly now, stubborn and determined, refusing the small kindness of practicality because practicality felt like admitting something was changing.
The Florida rain started without warning, turning the sidewalks slick. One moment I was walking, the next I was on the ground, my right hip screaming, pain flashing white behind my eyes.
Groceries scattered across the parking lot like confetti at a funeral nobody wanted to attend.
Someone had shouted. Someone had rushed over. I remembered the wet smell of asphalt and oranges rolling away from me, bright and ridiculous in the rain.
Then the hospital. The fluorescent lights. The antiseptic sting. The way my body didn’t feel like mine.
Three surgeries.
Four months of rehabilitation.
And now here I was: Helen Carter, sixty-eight years old, former bookkeeper, current wheelchair enthusiast.
The doctors said I might walk again with enough physical therapy.
But physical therapy cost money I didn’t have.
My house became my prison.
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