Summary
After the car accident that cost me my legs, I was prone to frequent outbursts.
So, my husband bought me a robot that looked exactly like him.
“Here’s a punching bag for you,” he said, brushing me off with a look of pure annoyance. “Are you finally satisfied?”
The robot, however, was a natural.
In the beginning, when my depression relapsed and I refused to eat, it would kneel before me, kissing and coaxing me. “Be a good girl, baby. Just one more bite.”
Later, it said the same thing in bed.