My uncle raised me after my parents died. After his funeral, I received a handwritten letter from him that began, "I've lied to you your whole life."
I was 26 years old, and I hadn't walked since I was four.
Most people heard that and assumed my life had begun in a hospital bed.
I don't remember the accident.
My mother, Lena, sang too loudly in the kitchen. My father, Mark, smelled of motor oil and peppermint gum.
I had light-up sneakers, a purple sippy cup, and way too many opinions.
I don't remember the accident.
My whole life, the story was: there was an accident, my parents died, I survived, but not my spine.
The state started talking about "appropriate placements."
Then my mother's brother showed up.
"We're going to find a loving home."
Ray looked like he'd been built of concrete and bad weather. Big hands. Permanent frown.
The social worker, Karen, stood by my hospital bed with a tablet.
"We're going to find a loving home," she said. "We have families experienced with—"
"I'm taking her. I'm not giving her to strangers. She's mine."
He drove me back to his place, to his small house that smelled of coffee.
He'd shuffle into my room, his hair a mess.
He had no kids. No partner. No idea.
