There was a time when my life seemed ordinary, even hopeful. I met my husband, Lucas Cortez, at a neighborhood fundraiser in Boulder. He had a charm that made people feel chosen. When he spoke, the crowd leaned towards him. When he smiled, we were convinced he was the one for us. We married quickly, driven by concrete, shared plans. Children. Travel. A bigger house in a more peaceful location. A future we had earned.
That future was shattered on a road near Golden, on a bend that locals always warned about and that everyone thought they could navigate without a hitch. Lucas was returning from a regional business conference. Another driver, drunk as a skunk, crossed the median. The impact ripped through the car's bodywork and spared Lucas's life, but tore off his lower body.
The neurologist from the Front Range Medical Pavilion spoke gently, but without illusions. He explained the lesions in clinical terms, in a calm voice, emphasizing their permanent nature. When he finished, a heavy silence fell.
I didn't cry then. I took Lucas's hand and promised him I wouldn't leave him. I told him we would adapt. I believed that love was synonymous with endurance.
