I believed him. I didn’t know yet that he was mourning his image, not my mobility.

For a while, he played the role of the supportive husband perfectly. He posted photos, wrote captions about resilience, and treated my survival like a personal branding exercise. But in private, the sourness grew. He stopped inviting me to work dinners. He stopped introducing me to colleagues.

“It’s just… inconvenient for you, Mara,” he would say, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. “The venue isn’t accessible. The crowd is too tight. I’m trying to protect you.”

I let him protect me into invisibility. I assumed he was rebuilding his life, and I was just giving him space. I didn’t realize he was rehearsing a life where I no longer existed.

Chapter 2: The Red Dress