“You’re not afraid?” he asked one night.
“I’m only afraid you’ll give up,” I replied.
Something in his eyes softened. Evenings turned quiet and honest.
“The day she left,” he confessed once, “I tried walking for months. Every step reminded me how useless I felt.”
“If someone stayed,” I asked gently, “would you try again?”
“Maybe,” he said. That single word meant everything.
One afternoon, Elaine arrived unannounced.
“I hope you know your place,” she said sharply. “Don’t forget to send money home. Your family invested in you.”
Before I could speak, Ethan rolled into the room. He placed a check on the table.
“Thank you for bringing her here,” he said coldly. “From today on, you have no authority over her.”
Elaine went pale. For the first time, someone had defended me—not out of obligation, but because I mattered.
Weeks became months. Ethan grew stronger, walking with a cane, always holding my hand. Then one morning, I woke to an empty bed. Panicked, I ran to the garden.
There he was—walking on his own.
“You can walk,” I whispered.
He smiled and reached for me.
“My legs healed,” he said softly. “But you’re the one who healed my heart.”