“I don’t know how to feel,” I said.
“You don’t have to decide today. But he gave you choices. Don’t mess them up.”
A month later, after appointments with the lawyer and paperwork, I arrived at a rehabilitation center an hour away. A physical therapist named Miguel skimmed through my file.
“It’s been a while,” he said. “This is going to be tough.”
“I know,” I said. “Someone really fought to get me here. I’m not going to waste that.”
They strapped me into a harness over a treadmill.
My legs dangled. My heart was pounding.
“Are you okay?” Miguel asked.
I nodded, tears welling in my eyes.
“I’m just doing something my uncle wanted me to do,” I said.
I stood there, most of my weight on my own legs, for a few seconds.
My muscles screamed. My knees buckled. The harness caught me.
Last week, for the first time since I was four, I stood with most of my weight on my own legs for a few seconds.
It wasn't pretty. I was shaking. I was crying.
In my head, I heard Ray's voice:
"You're going to be okay, kid. Can you hear me?"
Do I forgive him?
My uncle raised me after my parents died – until his death revealed the truth he had hidden for years.
