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He was crying, something I’d never seen him do. He was always emotional—usually angry, sometimes euphoric. But crying was completely new. He was screaming, crying: “Get up! Please get up! For the love of Christ, get up Celia!”

Try as I might, I could not get up. He’d beaten me before, of course. But this time he really outdid himself. I couldn’t get up. And even though he was shouting, I could barely hear him. I was bleeding from one ear and I couldn’t feel my legs.

Maybe it was me. The coffee wasn’t strong enough. The house was too messy. And, worst of all, we couldn’t have kids. The doctor said the problem wasn’t with me, but Jim said otherwise, that he was virile and I wasn’t the woman I pretended to be. I don’t know what to think, but I’m sure it’s all part of the Lord’s plan.

He left me, as you know, and I understand that now that I’m in this wheelchair, I’m an even less appealing companion than I was before. So, here I am, in my thirties living in this dim room alone. The high school kids bring me food and joy. I look out the window and dream.

The Lord will forgive Jim if he did anything wrong. And He continues to bless me despite my obvious faults, every day. But try as I might, I just can’t get up.

I’m sorry.