Chapter 6
Physical therapy hurt.
Not movie hurt.
Not brave music hurt.
Real hurt.
Sweat on my face.
Tears in my throat.
Muscles shaking.
The humiliating terror of trying to stand while adults watched.
My new therapist, Nina, never called me lazy.
Not once.
She said, “Your leg forgot trust.”
I understood that.
So had I.
Dad came to every session.
At first, I hated it.
He watched me like guilt had grown eyes.
One day, after I snapped at him, Nina took him outside.
When he came back, he sat in the corner and read a book.
He stopped staring.
That helped.
Ethan helped more.
He made a chart.
Not a cute one.
A ridiculous one.
Every time I finished an exercise, he put a sticker shaped like a lightning bolt beside it.
“I’m twelve,” I told him.
“And legendary,” he said.
I rolled my eyes.
But I kept the stickers.
Karen’s criminal case grew.
Investigators found she had moved small amounts from my medical trust into accounts under her sister’s name.
They found emails to her lawyer.
They found messages to a friend.
If she walks normally before August, we lose leverage.
Dad read that one and walked outside.
I followed him in my chair.
He was standing by the fence, crying silently.
“I should have known,” he said.
“Yes.”
He turned.
The word hurt him.
But he had asked for truth by being there.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
I looked at my weak leg.
At the brace.
At my hands gripping the wheels.
“I don’t want your sorry to be the loudest thing in the house.”
He wiped his face.
“What do you want?”
“Ramps.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“I want ramps. And a downstairs bedroom. And no one saying the house looks ugly.”
By the next week, workers were there.
Ramps.
Rails.
A new bedroom painted pale yellow.
Ethan hung string lights.
Dad installed a bell beside my bed.
I told him I was not a hotel guest.
He said, “Humor me.”
I did.
May you like
The house began changing shape around my needs.
For once, nobody acted like that was a burden.
