Then you stand up at the wedding. You show them you are not weak. And you show them what she did. He practiced walking every day in the backyard.
From the bench to the tree. From the tree to the fence. Step by step, his legs remembered. Three days before the wedding, he could walk twenty steps without stopping.
Two days before, he climbed three small garden steps again and again. The morning of the wedding arrived. She walked in with the pills one last time. Just for today, she said, so you don’t feel too tired.
He took them, pretended to swallow, and spat them out when she left. He put on the suit tailored for a man who would sit through the ceremony. In the garden, white chairs were filled with guests. She stood near the stage in her white dress, smiling.
The driver pushed his wheelchair down the aisle. The officiant began to speak. Wait, he said. I need one minute.
He placed his hands on the arms of the wheelchair. For six months, he said, his voice steady. He pushed down and slowly stood up. Silence.
He stood there on his own two legs. For six months, I thought I was getting sick. But the truth is, someone was making me sick. He took a step toward the stage.
Then another. He climbed the three steps, one by one, and turned to face the crowd. At that moment, his lawyer nodded to someone near the sound system. A large screen behind the stage turned on.
The video from the kitchen. Her hands pouring pills. The financial documents. The doctor’s report.
He looked at her. Her face was white. You didn’t try to take my company, he said. You tried to take my life.
The garden was completely silent. For the first time in six months, he was the one standing. And she was the one with nowhere to go.