He watched the nurses carefully and copied everything they did. He wrote notes in a worn notebook—how to roll me safely, how to check my skin, how to lift me gently but firmly.
The first night at home, his alarm rang every two hours.
He’d stumble into my room with messy hair and tired eyes.
“Pancake time,” he’d mutter while adjusting my position.
Sometimes I whimpered from pain.
“I know,” he’d whisper softly. “I got you, kiddo.”
Money was tight. Insurance fights were constant.
I remember him pacing the kitchen with the phone on speaker.
“No, she can’t just ‘make do’ without a shower chair,” he argued. “You want to tell her that yourself?”
They never did.
He built a rough plywood ramp outside the front door so my wheelchair could get in and out. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked.
Our neighbor, Mrs. Rodriguez, started bringing casseroles and offering advice.
“She needs friends,” she told him.
“She needs not to break her neck on your stairs,” he grumbled.
But later he pushed my wheelchair around the neighborhood, introducing me proudly to every kid like I was some kind of VIP.
At the park, kids stared.
Parents looked away.
Then a girl my age walked up.
“Why can’t you walk?” she asked bluntly.
I froze.