"Yeah."
Mrs. Patel sat down. "He couldn't undo that night. So he changed diapers and built ramps and fought with people in suits. He punished himself every day. Doesn't make it right. But it's true."
"This is going to be rough."
"I don't know how to feel," I said.
"You don't have to decide today. But he gave you choices. Don't waste them."
***
A month later, after meetings with the lawyer and paperwork, I rolled into a rehab center an hour away. A physical therapist named Miguel flipped through my chart.
"Been a while," he said. "This is going to be rough."
"I know," I said. "Someone worked really hard so I could be here. I'm not wasting it."
"You okay?"
They strapped me into a harness over a treadmill.
My legs dangled. My heart hammered.
"You okay?" Miguel asked.
I nodded, tears in my eyes.
"I'm just doing something my uncle wanted me to do," I said.
I stood with most of my weight on my own legs for a few seconds.
The machine started.
My muscles screamed. My knees buckled. The harness caught me.
"Again," I said.
We went again.
***
Last week, for the first time since I was four, I stood with most of my weight on my own legs for a few seconds.
It wasn't pretty. I shook. I cried.
