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PART 2
At first, I thought surviving had been the hardest part.
But I was wrong.
The hardest part began after I left the hospital, when people looked at me with pity and whispered the same question everywhere I went:
“How is she going to live now?”
My husband was arrested. The court punished him. People said justice had been served.
But justice didn’t help me get dressed.
It didn’t help me eat.
It didn’t stop me from waking up in the middle of the night, reaching for hands that were no longer there.
Many people believed my life was over. They expected me to sit quietly in a corner, depend on others, and become another sad story the village would whisper about.
But I had already lost too much.
I refused to lose myself as well.
So I started again.
The rest can be found on the next page.
Slowly.
Painfully.
I learned to use my arms and elbows. I learned to dress myself, cook, clean, wash, and carry things in ways people thought were impossible.
At first, people looked at me with pity.
