I’ll never forget the first time I realized my husband was keeping a secret. It was months after my accident, when the shock had worn off and the reality of my paralysis had settled in. That’s when I noticed—every night, like clockwork, he’d disappear into the garage.
At first, I thought he was avoiding me. Maybe our new reality was too much for him. But then I’d hear the sounds—the whir of a drill, the scrape of metal—and I’d wonder what could possibly be so important.
My curiosity turned to worry. Was he building something? Hiding something? I needed to know. With the help of a friend, I set up a camera. What I saw shattered me in the best way.
There he was, night after night, hunched over a workbench, surrounded by sketches and parts. He was building a car—not just any car, but one adapted for my wheelchair. He had no experience, no training—just sheer determination to give me back some freedom.
When I finally told him I knew, he looked embarrassed, then relieved. “I just wanted to do something,” he admitted. “Something to help.”
The day he showed me the finished vehicle, I didn’t see bolts and steel—I saw every late night, every scraped knuckle, every moment of love poured into making my life better.
