My Husband Wanted Us in Separate Rooms — Then One Night, I Heard Something I Couldn’t Ignore

Ignoring the ache in my body, I pushed myself into my wheelchair and rolled down the hallway. My heart pounded with every creak of the wooden floorboards.

When I reached his door, I hesitated, the air thick with dread. This time, when I turned the handle, it clicked open.

“David?” I whispered as I pushed the door open.

The sight before me froze me in place.

The room was a mess—paint cans scattered on the floor, pieces of wood leaning against the wall, and tools spread across the desk. In the center of it all stood David, sweat on his brow, holding a screwdriver in one hand.

He turned toward me, startled, before his expression softened into something sheepish. “You weren’t supposed to see this yet.”

My eyes darted around the chaos. “What… what is all of this?”

He stepped aside, revealing a half-built structure behind him. “It’s a lift system. For you. To help you get in and out of bed more easily.”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. I just stared at the contraption, then at him, then at the sketches pinned to the walls—detailed diagrams of furniture adapted for wheelchair access, measurements scribbled in his handwriting, little notes that read things like drawer height: perfect reach and smooth edges for safety.

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