I couldn’t transfer to my chair without help.

My mother lived in another state. My father was gone. My sister worked nights and helped when she could, but she couldn’t move in yet. I was terrified. So I swallowed my pride.

“Fine,” I said. “A thousand a week.”

He nodded like we’d finalized a business deal.

“Transfer it every Friday,” he said. “That way it’s simple.”

Simple.

That first Friday, I sent the money from my savings. He checked his phone, smiled, and patted my arm.

“Thanks,” he said. “Now, what do you need?”

What I received for that money was the bare minimum.

He rushed through showers, sighing, saying, “Can you hurry up? I’ve got stuff to do.”

He dropped meals in front of me without asking if I needed help.

He left me alone for hours. When I used the call button, he ignored it and later said, “I was busy,” or “You have to stop acting like I’m your servant.”

I started feeling guilty for needing water.

He was constantly on his phone. Always texting. Always turning the screen away.

“Who are you talking to?” I asked once.

“Guys from work,” he replied. “I’m allowed to have a life.”

He started leaving more often. I’d hear the door slam while I sat stuck in my chair.

One night, I woke up thirsty. He wasn’t in bed. I heard his voice in the living room. I pressed the call button. Nothing. I called his phone—it rang nearby.

He let it ring.

The next morning, his phone buzzed while he showered. I didn’t go searching. The screen lit up on its own.