The word hit harder than the rain.
Her voice trembled, but it wasn’t from heartbreak.
It was resentment.
“The appointments,” he said. “The bills. The medications. The tears. The panic. Your illness has swallowed it all up.”
For three years, Eleanor had defended Garrett to all those who noticed that his voice became monotonous when he spoke to her in public.
“He’s tired,” she told herself.
He is afraid.
He loves me, but he doesn’t know how to handle it.
She had repeated those words so many times that they had become a little prayer that she repeated every time he got angry with her after a visit to the doctor or sighed at the sight of yet another pharmacy receipt.
But there was no tenderness in the car that night.
There was only fear, anger, and a coldness that chilled his already weak blood even further.
“Garrett,” she said, gripping the door handle as another cramp seized her lower abdomen. “I can’t even stand up anymore.”
He grabbed onto her shoulder.
