Daniel arrived around noon with a coffee he did not offer me. He stood at the end of the bed, his eyes on the monitor like it had insulted him. He said he had a showing in Back Bay and couldn’t stay long. He asked if I had signed any forms that would cost us money. He left after five minutes.

He returned in the evening. The light had flattened, and the room was all quiet edges. He closed the door with two fingers and did not sit. He looked at me the way he looked at cracked tiles or paint that had begun to peel, as if I were a thing that needed fixing by someone else.

“I cannot afford to support a freeloading wife,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Now you have an excuse to rest in bed. I cannot bear an ill-favored, freeloading wife anymore.”

The words hit me like a second accident. I tried to tell him about the inheritance, about the one hundred million dollars. He waved my words away with a flick of his fingers.