“I think that chair is a tool,” she replied. “Not a prophecy.”
“Enough,” he barked. “He’s disabled.”
Oliver covered his ears at the volume of his father’s voice.
Rebecca stood.
“That’s where we differ,” she said quietly. “You love the son you’re afraid of losing. I love the son who’s right in front of us.”
The words struck deeper than he expected.
She walked to the counter and handed him a notebook.
Daily logs. Exercises. Muscle responses. Small gains.
The last entry read: 9:15 a.m. — Stood independently for six seconds.
Michael shook his head. “This is fantasy.”
“Then watch,” she said.
She placed Oliver on the floor.
Slowly, she let go.
Oliver trembled. His knees quivered.
But he stayed upright.
One second.
Two.
Then he took a step.
Then another.
“Daddy!” he squealed.
Michael’s knees nearly gave out. The world he had clung to cracked open.
His son was not broken.
He had been protected into stillness.
Shame flooded him. Followed by something softer. Terrifying.
Hope.
Rebecca explained the homemade strengthening games. The music Mrs. Pike had heard was rhythm exercises. The shouting was effort, not pain.
“You can’t wrap courage in bubble wrap,” she said gently.