The dizziness made me lean on his arm.

The exhaustion made me grateful for a husband who did the errands, who took things off my plate, who insisted I rest while he handled the world.

The fear of a diagnosis no one could give me made me cling to the one person who seemed to be fighting for answers alongside me.

In other words, the harm he did me was engineered to send me running straight back into his arms, and it worked, flawlessly, for years.

The sicker he made me, the more I loved him for taking care of me.