Sometimes I wanted to shake him, to scream until he understood that my love wasn't pity. But I also saw the storm he was fighting inside himself—the way his pride battled his fear.
That afternoon, I convinced him to attend another rehab session. He resisted at first, scowling as I laced his shoes, but finally gave in when Jacob arrived to push the wheelchair.
"C'mon, bro," Jacob teased, "let's show these therapists you're still tougher than me."
Dennis snorted. "Not hard. You've always been weak."
But the banter loosened his stiffness, and by the time we reached the rehab center, he seemed a little lighter.
Inside, the therapist, Dr. Nelson, greeted us warmly. "Ready to try the standing frame today, Dennis?"
I saw him pale, but he nodded. His hands trembled as Jacob and Dr. Nelson helped secure him into the frame. Slowly, they raised him into an upright position.
His jaw clenched. His breathing quickened. Sweat trickled down his forehead.
"Steady," Dr. Nelson murmured. "You're doing it."
I stepped closer, my hand brushing his. "Dennis," I whispered, "look at me."
His eyes met mine, burning with effort. For the first time since the stroke, he stood— not freely, not without help, but upright, facing me.
Tears stung my eyes. "See? You're not broken. You're here."
His lips trembled, and for a fleeting second, I saw a spark of pride break through the clouds of his despair.
The standing frame felt like a prison and a victory at once. My legs shook violently, and pain lanced through my side, but Ann's eyes anchored me. She looked at me as though I was conquering Everest, not just rising with metal supports.
"Enough for today," Dr. Nelson said after a few minutes, lowering me gently back into the chair.
As Jacob wheeled me out, I muttered, "That was humiliating."
Ann bent down, whispering fiercely in my ear. "That was brave. Don't you dare diminish it."
For the first time, I didn't argue.
That night, lying in bed, exhaustion pulling at me, I reached for her hand.
"Ann?"
"Yes?" Her voice was soft, drowsy.
"Thank you… for not letting me give up."
She squeezed my hand. "Get used to it. I'm not done with you yet."
And as sleep claimed me, I realized the walls inside me weren't indestructible after all. They were cracking— slowly, painfully— but cracking nonetheless.
The applause in Ann's eyes when I stood in that damned rehab frame didn't last long. Hope, fragile and slippery, slid through my fingers in the days that followed.
At first, I thought I'd keep building from there— maybe lift my arm higher, maybe push my leg forward. But my body had other plans.
My hand trembled violently, refusing to grip the therapy ball. My leg, stubborn as a rock, dragged even more than before. No matter how hard I tried, the movements grew smaller, weaker.
I could feel the pity in the therapist's silence. The disappointment in Ann's forced smile.
"You're just tired," she said one evening, setting a plate of food in front of me. "Progress isn't straight. It curves, it dips, then it rises again."
"Spare me the lecture," I muttered, pushing the plate away.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing.
Inside, something dark twisted. I hated myself. I hated this body. I hated that Ann was here, watching me unravel.
When Jacob dropped by the next morning, he bounded in with his usual clumsy cheer. "Hey, cousin, I brought you a new crossword. Keep that brain sharp while the muscles are lazy."
"Get lost," I snapped before he even sat down.
Jacob froze, hurt flickering across his face. "I was just—"
"I don't need your charity games."
He raised his hands in surrender, shooting a glance at Ann. She shook her head slightly, silently asking him not to argue. He left soon after, quieter than usual.
Ann turned to me once the door clicked shut. "Why are you pushing everyone away?"
"Because I don't need an audience for my humiliation."
Her eyes softened. "They're not watching you fail, Dennis. They're standing with you."
I laughed bitterly. "Standing. Exactly. Something I can't do."
The words cut sharper than I meant them to, and I saw her flinch.
He was slipping again. Each day, a little further.
It was like living with two men— the Dennis I loved, and this stranger who lashed out at every kindness. I knew it was the pain speaking, the frustration, the crushing weight of helplessness. But knowing didn't make it hurt less.
That night, I found him staring at his useless hand, his jaw clenched, his face gray with exhaustion.
"Dennis," I said gently, "eat a little. Please."
"I'm not hungry."
"You've barely eaten all day."
"I said I'm not hungry!" His voice cracked like a whip.
I froze, the spoon in my hand trembling. For a moment, silence rang louder than his outburst.
Then, softly, I set the bowl down. "You don't have to fight me, you know. I'm not your enemy."
His chest rose and fell, ragged. He buried his face in his good hand. "Why are you still here, Ann? Don't you get it? I'm dragging you into a life you don't deserve."
I sank to the floor beside him, resting my head against his knee. "You think this is a prison. I think it's a home, because you're in it."
He didn't answer. His shoulders shook, the first tremor of a man unraveling.
Her words should have soothed me, but they burned. How could she sit there, head against my useless leg, as if this was enough?
I wanted to scream. I wanted to fling the lamp, smash the walls, run until my lungs burst. But my body wouldn't obey. My rage had no outlet except my tongue, and it lashed the one person who least deserved it.
"You're wasting your life!" I shouted. "Don't you see that? You could have everything— a career, freedom, a husband who doesn't need you to tie his shoes. And instead you're stuck here, babysitting a cripple!"
The silence after my words was deafening.
Ann lifted her head slowly. Her eyes glistened, but there was no anger in them. Only sorrow.
"Are you finished?" she asked quietly.
I stared at her, my fury dissolving into shame.
"Because if you are," she continued, voice trembling but steady, "then listen to me. I'm not here because I have nowhere else to go. I'm here because this is where I want to be. With you. In your mess, in your struggle, in your fight. Don't you dare call that a waste."
Her words struck me harder than any blow. My throat closed, my vision blurred.
I wanted to apologize, but the word stuck in my chest like a stone.
That night, long after the dishes were washed and the lights dimmed, I found him awake, staring at the ceiling.
I slid into bed beside him, careful not to push. After a long silence, his voice cracked through the dark.
"I'm scared, Ann."
My heart clenched. He rarely admitted fear— it was always anger, sarcasm, bitterness. But never this.
"I'm scared you'll hate me one day. That you'll wake up and wonder why you chained yourself to me. That you'll regret everything you gave up."
Tears filled my eyes. I reached for his hand. "Dennis, love isn't chains. It's wings. You're not holding me down— you're giving me a reason to rise every morning. Can't you see that?"
His shoulders shook. For the first time since the stroke, I saw him cry— not in frustration, not in fury, but in sheer brokenness.
I held him, whispering into his hair, "We'll get through this. Even if the road is long, even if it's hard, we'll get through it together."
His tears soaked my shoulder. My own mingled with his. And though the fracture between us ached, I believed— deeply, stubbornly— that love could bridge even this.
I hated crying. I hated that she saw me like this. But in her arms, for once, I didn't feel like a burden.
I felt like a man— broken, yes, but still hers.
As sleep pulled at me, I whispered the word that had choked me all day.
"Sorry."
Ann kissed my forehead. "Don't be. Just keep fighting with me."
And for the first time in weeks, I thought maybe— just maybe —I could.