Five years ago, a drunk driver hit me. I wouldn’t have survived if Ryan, a passing stranger, hadn’t called an ambulance and stayed with me. I woke up in a hospital having lost my right leg below the knee.
Ryan never left my side. He visited every day, helped me through rehab, and taught me how to live again. With him, I was happy. So when he proposed, I said yes.
Our wedding was small and beautiful. But at home that night, Ryan wasn’t smiling. He sat on the bed, tense, and told me he needed to share something he’d hidden for years.
He said he was responsible for my disability. I was stunned. I told him he saved my life. He still wouldn’t explain, then left and came back an hour later, apologizing but staying vague.
Days passed. He became distant and secretive. I followed him after work and found him at a small house with an elderly man on oxygen—his uncle, Cody.
Ryan finally admitted that Cody was the drunk driver who hit me. After the crash, Cody called Ryan in panic. Ryan got there, called the ambulance, and stayed with me. He kept Cody hidden because he feared I’d hate them both. He also believed that if he’d arrived sooner, my leg might’ve been saved.
I was furious but eventually understood why he hid the truth. Cody was dying of cancer. I forgave him and told Ryan we could make this work if he was honest from now on. We went home, held each other, and agreed that love is messy but worth fighting for.