Chapter 15
At twenty-four, I stopped using my cane every day.
I still needed it sometimes.
Long distances.
Bad weather.
Pain days.
But one morning, I walked from my bedroom to the kitchen without reaching for it.
I did not notice until Dad did.
He was visiting for breakfast.
He froze with a coffee mug in his hand.
“What?” I asked.
He pointed.
I looked back.
The cane was still by the door.
My throat tightened.
“Oh.”
Dad set the mug down.
“May I cry?”
“No.”
He cried anyway.
I cried too.
Then I picked up the cane and carried it to the table.
Not because I needed it.
Because it had earned its place.
Mobility is not a straight line.
Neither is dignity.
At the advocacy center, we created a wall of tools.
Canes.
Braces.
Walkers.
Photos of kids using them proudly.
Above it, we painted Nina’s sentence.
Support is not failure.
On opening day, a little girl touched my blue cane and asked if she could have one like it.
I knelt beside her.
“You can have any color you want.”
“Purple.”
“Excellent choice.”
Her mother cried.
May you like
I understood.
Sometimes hope looks like a purple cane.
