Rage flooded him. He imagined Rebecca on speakerphone, joking with friends while Ollie sat strapped in his chair. His shoes struck the marble hallway sharply as he strode toward the sound.
He reached the kitchen doorway.
“What is going on in—”
The words evaporated.
His briefcase slipped from his hand.
The kitchen was drenched in sunlight. And in the center of it lay Rebecca — flat on her back on the tile floor, wearing her pale green uniform and absurd yellow kitchen gloves. Her dark curls fanned around her head, and she was laughing so hard tears streaked her cheeks.
But she wasn’t what stole Michael’s breath.
Oliver was not in his wheelchair.
The sleek, imported chair — the one Michael had spent a fortune on — stood empty by the refrigerator.
Oliver was standing.
Standing on Rebecca’s stomach, wobbling but upright. His striped pajamas bunched at the ankles, a tiny plastic crown perched crookedly on his head. His arms were raised triumphantly, his face lit with joy so pure it almost hurt to see.
He was laughing.
Rebecca held his ankles gently, steady but not restraining, chanting softly, “Up you go, superhero. Show the world.”