We’d gotten married in a small ceremony at her parents’ church in Columbus. Had Evie eleven months later. Built what I’d thought was a strong, stable life together.
But I also remembered the time about six months ago when Jess had accidentally walked in while I was changing the liner on my prosthetic. The way she’d turned her head just a fraction too quickly, her eyes sliding away from the angry red skin, the swelling, the medical reality of what my life actually looked like.
I’d told myself at the time that it was just hard for her. That the antiseptic smell bothered her. That seeing the physical reminder of what I’d lost was difficult.
I’d never questioned whether she actually loved me.
Not really.
Not seriously.
“Next customer!” the cashier had called out, snapping me back to reality.
