His mother’s voice was frantic, almost incoherent. I only caught fragments.
“I’m not leaving.”
“Crash.”
“Truck.”
“He can’t feel his legs.”
For fifteen years, I believed he had been driving to his grandparents’ house that night.
The call came while I sat on my bedroom floor wrapping gifts.
The hospital was cold, harsh, and smelled stale. Machines beeped steadily around him. He lay there with a brace around his neck, wires everywhere—but his eyes were open.
“I’m here,” I whispered, holding his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A doctor later spoke to us quietly.
“Spinal cord damage,” he said. “He’s paralyzed from the waist down. Recovery is unlikely.”
His mother cried. His father said nothing.
I went home in a daze.
My parents were waiting at the table, as if preparing for a negotiation.
“Sit,” my mother said.
“He was in an accident,” I began. “He can’t walk. I’m going to be with him as much as—”
“This isn’t what you need,” she interrupted.
“You can find someone healthy.”
I stared at her. “What?”
“You’re seventeen. You have a future—law school, a career. You can’t tie yourself to this.”
“To what?” I shot back. “To the person I love who just lost the use of his legs?”
My father leaned forward.
“You’re young,” he said. “You can do better. Don’t throw your life away.”
I almost laughed.
