After My Accident, My Husband Let His Mother Pack His Bags and Tell Me, “My Son Didn’t Sign Up for This”—The Next Morning, They Were the Ones Begging for Answers
home with a broken leg, two fractured ribs, and orders to stay in bed for six weeks.
Two days earlier, a drunk driver had turned my Tuesday commute into a slow motion crash of glass and metal. I was 35, alive, and, according to the surgeon, “very lucky.” Lucky felt like a strong word for someone who couldn’t reach her own water cup.
