I used to measure time by my sons’ medications.
Seven in the morning meant muscle relaxants for Lucas. Fifteen minutes later meant Noah’s seizure medication, and by 8 a.m., it meant stretching exercises before breakfast.
By 9 a.m., I already felt as if I had worked a full shift.
I used to measure time by my sons’ medications.
You see, three years ago, Lucas and Noah, my twin boys, were in a car accident while my husband, Mark, drove them home from school. The boys survived, but the crash left them disabled.
Lucas could barely move his legs, and Noah needed constant help due to brain trauma.
My entire life shifted overnight.
Physical therapy appointments, wheelchairs, bath chairs, adaptive utensils, and lifting two growing boys who depended on me for everything.
The boys survived.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my boys more than anything in the world, but caring for them over the years was exhausting in ways I never knew existed.
Most nights, I slept in short bursts. Maybe three hours. Sometimes four, if I were lucky.
Meanwhile, Mark always seemed to be at work.
He worked at his father’s logistics company. His father, Arthur, built the company from nothing.
Mark had spent years telling everyone that one day he’d run it.
I slept in short bursts.
Whenever I brought up how overwhelmed I felt, Mark gave the same answer:
“Just hold on a little longer, Emily. Once I become Chief Executive Officer (CEO), everything will change. We’ll hire full-time nurses. You won’t have to do all this alone.”
I believed him.
For a while, the story made sense. Arthur was nearing retirement, and Mark had always been the obvious successor. Long hours seemed like the price of ambition.
But after the accident, those hours stretched into endless.
“Just hold on a little longer.”
My husband had “late meetings.” Weekend travel for “client dinners” that ran until midnight.
At first, I tried to be supportive. But by then, the cracks had started showing.
***
One evening, about six months before everything exploded, Mark came home smelling of expensive perfume.
I stood in the kitchen holding Noah’s feeding syringe.
“That’s a new cologne,” I said.
“It’s a client dinner, Emily. Restaurants smell like perfume. Relax.”
I wanted to believe that explanation, so I swallowed my suspicion.
“That’s a new cologne.”
But small things kept piling up.
Receipts for hotels when he claimed he’d stayed late at the office. Text alerts on a phone turned face down.
And the biggest change of all was how my husband looked at me. Or rather, how he stopped looking at me.
I had dark circles under my eyes. My clothes were usually wrinkled from lifting the boys all day. My hands smelled faintly of antiseptic.
I’m sure Mark noticed.
Small things kept piling up.
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