There were days—more than I wanted to admit—when I’d wanted to throw the prosthetic across the room and just give up entirely.
Days when I almost did.
But Jess had been there when I came home from Walter Reed. I remembered the way her hands had shaken when she first saw me in the wheelchair, how she’d tried and failed to hide the shock in her eyes.
“We’ll figure this out together, my love,” she’d whispered, kneeling beside my chair in the airport. “We always figure things out.”
And somehow, impossibly, we had.
