Michael’s mind screamed impossible. The neurologist’s voice echoed in memory.
Weak lower-limb response. Do not force mobility. The wheelchair is necessary. Accept reality.
Accept reality.
Michael had built a life around that sentence. Protective. Controlled. Safe. He forbade crawling to prevent “false hope.” Structured therapy. No risks.
And here was this woman undoing it all on a kitchen floor.
Fear detonated into fury.
“Rebecca!”
She turned instantly but did not release Oliver. Her grip tightened to steady him.
Oliver startled, wobbling.
Michael rushed forward. “Let him go! Are you insane? He could fall — he’s disabled!”
He scooped Oliver into his arms. The baby began to cry — not from injury, but from being pulled away from something he clearly loved.
“You’re fired,” Michael snapped. “Pack your things. This is reckless endangerment.”
Rebecca sat up slowly, rubbing her elbow where he’d shoved her. Her expression wasn’t submissive. It was steady.
“He’s not crying because he’s hurt,” she said calmly. “He’s crying because you stopped him.”
Michael strapped Oliver back into the wheelchair. The buckle snapped shut like a lock.
“You think this is progress?”