Chapter 1

My husband pressured me into quitting my job to take care of his paralyzed mother. For three years, I was her shadow. I bathed her, fed her, and cleaned up her waste every single day for over a thousand days without a break. On the day she finally passed away, he claimed he had to work overtime and didn't even come home.

Three months later, I caught him making out with another woman in his car. When I went home and demanded a divorce, he just leaned back on the sofa with his legs crossed. His tone was as casual as if he were asking what was for dinner.

“The house is in my mother’s name. Now that she’s gone, I inherit it. It’s pre-marital property,” he said coldly. “If you want to leave, you leave with nothing.”

What he didn't know was that before my mother-in-law died, she had already given that house to me.

1

When Maddox first suggested I quit my job, we had only been married for a year and a half.

It was a Friday. I remember it vividly because I had just been praised at the departmental meeting the day before. I had earned an A on my quarterly performance review. My boss pulled me aside and told me to keep it up, saying a promotion to supervisor was waiting for me at the end of the year.

I bought some high-quality beef that evening. I spent hours in the kitchen making a slow-cooked pot roast because it was his favorite.

Maddox walked through the door and didn't even take off his shoes. He tossed his briefcase onto the entryway cabinet and collapsed onto the sofa.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, wiping my hands as I came out of the kitchen.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at the ceiling for a long time. Then, he let out a heavy, bone-weary sigh.

“My mom fell. She broke her hip.”

My heart dropped. My mother-in-law, Lorraine, was sixty-five. She had high blood pressure, diabetes, and a minor heart condition discovered during last year’s checkup. A fall like this was a death sentence for her independence.

“Is she at the hospital?” I asked.

“Yeah, General Memorial. She just got out of surgery,” he said, rubbing his temples. “The doctor said the recovery will take at least six months. It’s hard to say if she’ll ever walk again. She needs someone there twenty-four-seven.”

“Should we hire a professional caregiver?”

“A decent caregiver starts at six thousand a month,” he muttered. “The specialized ones are asking for ten. Our combined salaries are barely over ten thousand. Between the mortgage and the car loan, we'd be underwater.”

I didn't say anything.

He sat up and looked at me. I didn't recognize that look back then. Later, I realized it wasn't a request for a discussion. It was a notification.

“Elena, you should quit your job.”

“Me? Quit?” I stood at the kitchen door, my apron still damp from the meat I’d been prepping.

“I’ve been at the company for three years. I just got an A. My boss said by the end of the year―”

“Your little salary isn't even enough to cover a professional nurse,” he interrupted. His tone was flat, like he was calculating a business expense.

“And think about it―will a stranger actually care for my mother? Haven't you seen those news stories about caregivers abusing the elderly? My mom will be lying there helpless. What if someone hurts her?”

“But...”

“Just help me for one year,” he said, standing up and taking my hands. “One year. Once she’s back on her feet, you can go back to work. Your company loves you, right? They’ll definitely take you back.”

His hands were warm. His voice was soft.

I stood there, looking down at the dark red stain on my apron.

“One year?”

“One year. I promise.”

I nodded.

Looking back, that “promise” wasn't worth a damn thing. But at the time, I believed him.

I handed in my resignation the next day.

My manager, Mrs. Gable, was a woman in her early forties. She stared at my letter for a long time in silence.

“Elena,” she said, setting the paper down. “Did your husband make you do this?”

“The family needs me,” I replied.

“Do you have any idea how many people are gunning for your position? I’ve been holding off three interns and two outside hires just because I told the board you were my choice for supervisor.”

I didn't know what to say.

“Once you leave, you can’t just walk back in,” she said, pushing the letter back toward me. “Think about it again.”

“It’s okay,” I said, pushing it back to her. “My family really needs me.”

She gave me a look. It was full of pity and frustration. It was a look I wouldn't fully understand until much later―she knew I was going to regret this.

And just like that, I walked away from my career.

I was twenty-six, a woman married for eighteen months. I ripped myself out of the professional world and planted myself in a paralyzed woman’s bedroom.