A Lifetime Lost

The car crash, the night before my wedding, stole my legs. And every trace of expression from my face. After that, I never smiled at Alex again. Every day, he’d carry me out of bed, help with my physical therapy, and massage my legs before I slept. His attention grew more meticulous, almost bordering on desperate appeasement. I offered no resistance, no reply, not even sparing him a glance. Five years later, he finally broke. He’d drowned himself in liquor, kneeling before my wheelchair, his forehead pressed against the cold armrest. His eyes, bloodshot and brimming with despair, stared up at me: "Just tell me, what do I need to do? It's been five years, Evie... Are we truly meant to live like this forever?" I slowly lowered my gaze, a cold smirk playing on my lips. It was the first time in half a decade I’d felt such a potent emotion towards him. "Don't you get it, Alex?" I met his tormented gaze, each word a deliberate strike, "Between us, there's only an endless war." … Alex was utterly shattered. He clutched me fiercely, his grip so strong I thought my bones would shatter, his voice thick with tears: "Curse me! Hit me! Hate me! Just stop being a doll!" "Can't we just start over?" Start over? I let him hold me, finding the thought utterly laughable. In the five years since that crash, Alex had dedicated everything, staying by my side without falter. From therapy massages to late-night vigils. Everyone praised his unwavering devotion. Even my usually doting parents chastised me for being ungrateful: "Stop tormenting him, just try to live a normal life." But they would never know the truth behind that accident. That afternoon, five years ago, I finished work early, bubbling with excitement as I hurried to the bridal boutique. I wanted him to be the first to see me in my wedding dress. But outside the changing room, I heard the soft, simpering voice of Bethany, my best friend: "If I weren't her best friend, would you break up with her and be with me?" Peeking through the crack in the door, I saw her wearing my wedding dress. Alex's hand gently traced her waist. "Yes," he replied without a second's hesitation. A tender kiss brushed her lips. In that moment, my world imploded. I stumbled out of the bridal shop. My mind a blur, I drove away. Then, at the next intersection, I collided with an out-of-control truck. Alex's tears streamed scalding hot onto my neck. Yet all I felt was a profound chill. He knew, of course. From the first moment I woke and looked at him, he understood. I knew everything. For five years, he lived with me, day in and day out, burdened by guilt. Everyone believed he was a man of integrity and deep affection. Only we both understood the unspoken truth: this was a silent, drawn-out torment. "That day at the bridal shop..." his voice was hoarse, "I saw you in the mirror." My fingertips trembled. It was the first time in five years he’d brought up that day. "By the time I chased after you, your car was already gone." He knelt by my wheelchair, his shoulders shaking. "Every day for five years, I've wondered, what if I hadn't been so foolish? What if I hadn't been soft-hearted and answered her that one word?" "But Evie, Bethany and I, we were over long before that." He looked up, his eyes bloodshot, "You're the one I love." Watching his anguish, I suddenly found it absurd. He thought I still cared about his betrayal with Bethany. Cared if he still loved me. But when I witnessed that scene in the bridal shop, my love for him died then and there. Every time he massaged my atrophied legs, all I could think of was how those hands had caressed Bethany's waist. When he pushed me to the hospital for check-ups, my mind replayed the moment he unhesitatingly agreed. If I hadn’t been crippled. They probably would have overcome all obstacles and been together by now. So, an endless war. That was my curse for him. Alex, exhausted from his outburst, slumped onto the sofa and fell into a heavy sleep. His phone vibrated persistently on the carpet, the screen lighting up and fading. On an impulse, I maneuvered my wheelchair over and picked it up. The number flashing on the screen, though unsaved, was one I could once recite by heart – Bethany. "Alex! Why aren't you answering your phone! Is she the only one you care about?! Your son is dying—" Bethany's voice on the other end was a frantic, piercing shriek, choked with tears, practically tearing through my eardrum. Son. The word was a poisoned icicle, stabbing deep into my heart. Freezing my blood in an instant. My fingers gripped the phone, icy cold, a bitter taste rising in my throat. "Then let him die." I heard my own vicious voice, completely devoid of emotion. The other end of the line fell into abrupt silence. Then, Bethany found her outlet. My once closest friend unleashed a torrent of venomous curses: "Evie! It's you! Why are you still clinging to Alex! Why can't you just let us be happy! Why don't you just die! Why didn't you die in that crash five years ago! You'll get what's coming to you! You'll burn in hell—!" What's coming to me? Listening to her curses, I looked down, my other hand instinctively pressing against my cold, flat, numb abdomen. I remembered the doctor’s regretful yet brutal words when I woke five years ago: "Ms. Caldwell, the car crash caused a uterine rupture and severe hemorrhage. We... did our best. You won't be able to have children in the future." In that moment, I lost more than just my legs. I lost a child, barely conceived, who never got to see the light of day. And the right to be a mother. I chuckled softly into the phone. My voice was fleeting, like a wisp of smoke: "Bethany, my reckoning came long ago." The moment you wore my wedding dress, and he answered, "Yes." The moment I lost my child, forever broken. I'm already in this hell. What's there to fear in dragging you all down with me? The next morning, after his fitful sleep, Alex reverted to his role as the impeccable husband. Gentle, patient. He meticulously tucked away all his pain and regret. The disheveled, vulnerable man from last night had vanished, evaporated like dew in the morning sun. Over these five years, his career had soared. Our home was spotless, tended by professional housekeepers and nurses. Yet, for my care, whenever he was home, he insisted on doing everything himself. Now, he knelt before my wheelchair, a warm cloth in hand, meticulously wiping each of my fingers. Every crease, every nail edge, was tended with painstaking care. The sunlight outlined his bowed profile, creating an almost devotional illusion. Breakfast was a porridge he'd cooked himself. He scooped a spoonful, naturally offering it to my lips: "It's a beautiful day today. How about I take you for a stroll by the lake later?" I offered no reply, a silence he’d long grown accustomed to. He talked on, about new flowers blooming by the lake, about which tree had sprouted fresh buds. As he was about to wheel me out, his assistant rushed in, speaking in hushed tones about being unable to reach him, then pulled Alex aside for a private word. Alex's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, and he turned back to me with an apologetic look: "Something urgent came up at the company. I need to go." He didn't even have time to change out of his light gray loungewear, hastily following his assistant out the door. I watched him disappear, my heart clear with an indifferent certainty. It wasn't about the company, of course. I knew well that over these five years, he’d never lacked for female company. I could sometimes catch the faint scent of perfume on his suits, a fragrance not my own. I remembered the subtle, hastily concealed scratch on his neck when he returned from a "business trip." I'd also glimpsed the relentless message notifications on his phone, face-down on the table, quickly silenced. He thought he was a master of concealment, playing the role of devoted and repentant husband before me. But I'd long lost any curiosity to expose him. How many fleeting encounters or casual affairs he had outside meant nothing to me, no more than the clouds drifting by or the wind blowing outside my window. But a child—that was different. I recalled the tender, childish voice accidentally caught on his phone. Hatred, like a venomous vine, spiraled madly, suffocating me. Almost instinctively, I maneuvered my wheelchair back to the study and logged into my social media account, untouched for five years. Bethany's social media account was public. I easily found the child. The boy in the photos looked less than two years old. He was held intimately in Bethany's arms, the background a playground. Another showed Alex, dressed in casual wear, bending to wipe the boy's brow. His profile revealed a truly relaxed tenderness I hadn't seen in a long time. And countless fragments pieced together their happy family life – family restaurants, park picnics, birthday parties at home... I scrolled through the pictures, my face devoid of emotion. Only the fingers gripping the mouse were white from the excessive pressure. Five years I’d spent building a fortress of coldness, meant to ward off all pain. In this moment, hatred tore it open with a gaping, bloody wound. Why? Why, when I had lost my child and was forever stripped of the right to be a mother, Could they have a healthy, living child, who cried and laughed, and called him 'Daddy'? The thought of a child, flowing with his and Bethany's blood, growing day by day, softly calling them "Mommy and Daddy." Receiving all their love and care... The image made my skin crawl. Alex returned in the dead of the third night. He carried the faint scent of disinfectant, silently knelt before my wheelchair, his hands clasped, knuckles white. "Evie," his voice was terribly hoarse, "Bethany's boy... had acute leukemia a few days ago. They fought for his life all night." I watched him, this husband of mine, consumed with worry for my best friend’s son. "He's out of immediate danger for now." He looked up, his eyes bloodshot, searching my face for a flicker of emotion. I offered a cold, brittle smile: "Not dead? What a shame." The air thickened, suffocating. Alex shot to his feet, his chest heaving, as if seeing me for the first time: "How can you say such a thing!" Alex's eyes burned with disappointment: "I barely recognize you anymore, you used to be so kind!" "He's just a child! He doesn't understand anything! What has he done wrong?" "And what about me?" I looked up, my gaze like an ice-pick piercing him, "What did my unborn child do wrong?" He seemed choked, all anger trapped in his chest. "Yes, Bethany and I... it was wrong of me." He turned his head, his voice sinking, offering an excuse: "After your accident, she blamed herself terribly, couldn't get past it for a long time... Then she said she didn't want anything, just wanted a child... She said she would never disrupt our lives..." I watched him scramble for excuses, then let out a low, bitter laugh. "Alex," I choked back my laughter, my voice a whisper, yet each word a dagger to his heart, "Because of her, I lost my child, and I lost the right to be a mother forever." "And now you tell me how noble and selfless she is, the woman who inserted herself into my friendship, and bore a child to my husband?" I stared at his suddenly pale face, each word a hammer blow: "You're both despicable." "Why do I rot in this abyss, while she gets to enjoy the full joy of motherhood?" "Why do I suffer in despair, my future shattered, while she finds solace and fulfillment through the child you stole together?" Five years ago, I was the brightest star of the ballet company, a swan under the spotlight. And now, this friend who once danced behind me. Not only wore my wedding dress and slept with my fiancé. But after I was crippled, she smoothly took my place on stage. I expressionlessly opened Bethany's social media page. On the screen, she was wearing an elegant dance costume, demonstrating moves in a spacious, brightly lit dance studio, with the caption: "Thank you, my Mr. Caldwell, for giving me my second stage in life." It was Alex, who, using our shared marital assets, had opened a ballet school for her. Scrolling further down. Under a pregnancy announcement from three years ago, it boldly read: "Bidding farewell to the stage, embracing the most beautiful role of my life." Someone commented: "From principal dancer to the most beautiful mom, then founding a dance school – Ms. Hale is truly a life winner!" Life winner... Those two words were like poisoned needles, stabbing deep into my heart. I scoffed, looking at Alex, his face ashen: "She stole everything I once had – my stage, my glory, my love, my child, my healthy body... And I am trapped in this wheelchair, day after day, enduring your nauseating pity." "You tell me, if you were me, how could you possibly be kind?" Alex stared at me, utterly speechless. I finally understood: hell wasn't just the prison of a body. It was watching, with wide-open eyes, how the person who destroyed you, stepped over your corpse, and lived the life that should have been yours, glorious and unhindered. My curse seemed to have taken hold. Alex began to visibly waste away. Company affairs were demanding, and Bethany and the child also needed him. He began to "travel" frequently, his time away from home growing longer. Each return saw him disheveled, carrying the strong scent of disinfectant from the hospital. I suspected the child wasn't doing well. Then, a number, dormant for five years, sent a message to my phone. It was Bethany. No words, just a series of photos. Alex asleep beside her, his tired profile etched with exhaustion. Another showed her, shoulder bare, curled in his embrace. Then came a message, dripping with undisguised triumph and provocation: "One child is too lonely; we plan to have another soon, a sibling for our son. Alex says this time, he wants a daughter." I stared at the indecent images on the screen, feeling no anger, only disgust. When Alex returned that evening, dark circles shadowed his weary eyes. He still intended to massage my legs, but his movements were distracted. "Evie," he began, his voice dry, "Leo's illness... he needs constant care. I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm just fulfilling my responsibility. I hope you... can understand." He knelt, trying to take my hand, his eyes alight with that familiar urgency: "Don't overthink this. I promise you, no matter what, you're still the one I love most." I listened to his performance in silence. Then, I picked up the tablet beside me and tapped the screen. One by one, Bethany's photos scrolled clearly across his vision. The images were nauseatingly explicit. "Caring for a critically ill child in the hospital," my voice was calm, yet laced with scorn, "and still finding time for... a romantic tryst with the mother of said child. Alex, you two certainly have appetites." Alex's face instantly went ashen, as if struck. Shame and embarrassment practically poured off him. He stammered, then finally found his voice, a raw urgency from having his facade ripped away: "Listen to me! It's not what you think!" "Leo's illness... it needs a bone marrow transplant! Bethany and I aren't a match! The doctors said... that a sibling's cord blood might be our only hope... we just have to... try for another child..." His voice trailed off, barely audible by the end, almost too ashamed to speak. I looked at him, suddenly devoid of even a cold smirk. "Get out." The next day, I contacted my lawyer, Mr. Davies. I meticulously organized all the evidence and sent it to him. "Here are Alex's bank card statements for the past five years. He used our joint marital assets to purchase property and luxury cars for Bethany, and also funded her dance school." "This is a copy of Leo Caldwell's birth certificate, with Alex's name listed as the father. And here are surveillance screenshots of his frequent visits to Bethany and her son's residence." "The evidence is damning," my voice was level, "I want to sue him for bigamy. Simultaneously, I want to file a pre-litigation asset preservation order to freeze all his and the company's liquid assets." "Furthermore," I paused, adding with unshakeable resolve, "on the grounds of disposing of substantial joint marital property without spousal consent, I will file a civil lawsuit against Bethany, demanding she fully return all property, school investments, and large gifts Alex provided her." "Immediately apply for asset preservation, and freeze her personal accounts and the dance school as well." Mr. Davies was remarkably efficient. Or perhaps, the chain of evidence I provided was simply too perfect. Within days, the legal hammer fell swiftly. Bank and court officials arrived at the company simultaneously while Alex was in the midst of a crucial business negotiation. Overnight, all his accounts, equity, and even the funding channels for Bethany’s ballet school were frozen. To make matters worse, several key project partners simultaneously sent inquiries, trapping him firmly at the company. When he finally disentangled himself, storming home in a rage, He was met by a starkly clean, empty space. The living room, bedroom, walk-in closet… every trace of Evie was gone. The jewelry box was empty, and large sections of the wardrobe where I kept my clothes were bare. Even the bottle of my usual, faint white-floral hand cream on the bathroom counter had vanished. It was as if I, Evie, had never lived there for five years. Alex's face instantly paled, his chest heaving as he roared at the empty house: "Evie!" Mrs. Gable, who had taken care of me for years, peeked cautiously from the kitchen, still holding a dishcloth. "Sir, you're back." "Where's my wife?" He strode over, his voice tight with panic. Mrs. Gable flinched, then quickly answered: "The missus... the missus had the caregiver help her pack her bags this morning, and then she left. She... she didn't say where she was going." "Left?" A terrifying storm erupted in Alex's eyes, "She's in a wheelchair, where could she possibly go?! Why didn't you stop her! Why didn't you call me!" Mrs. Gable was about to stammer a reply. But Alex's phone rang then. Hope instantly flared in his eyes as he pulled out his phone. The name flashing on the screen, however, was not the one he yearned to see. He frowned, picking up the call with extreme annoyance. The next moment, a woman's utterly frantic shriek and sobs, even without speakerphone, echoed clearly through the silent living room. "Alex! Why are all my bank cards frozen?! The hospital said they'll stop Leo's medication if we don't pay! He's surviving on those drugs, he'll die without money!" Bethany's voice, distorted by despair, screeched: "Evie! It must be that wicked witch, Evie! May she burn in hell! Alex! That's the Caldwell family's only—" Alex seemed not to hear the wails on the other end, mechanically disconnecting the call and violently slamming his phone against the wall. The screen shattered on impact. He surveyed the suffocatingly empty house; Evie's scent seemed to still linger in the air. But everywhere he looked, there was no longer any evidence of her presence. He stumbled into the bedroom, frantically opening every drawer, every closet door, even bending to look under the bed – nothing. "Evie..." he murmured, his voice hoarse, then slammed a fist against the cold closet door with a dull thud. His knuckles instantly swelled and bled, but he felt no pain, only the agony of an empty heart filled with cold air. Mrs. Gable stood in the doorway, too terrified to breathe. Just then, the doorbell chimed.