I was 26 when my uncle’s funeral ended and the house went quiet in a way that felt permanent. That’s when Mrs. Patel handed me the envelope. “Your uncle asked me to give you this,” she said, eyes swollen from crying. “And to tell you he’s sorry.” Sorry for what? I hadn’t walked since I was four. Most people hear that and assume my story starts in a hospital bed. But I had a “before.” I don’t remember the crash, but I remember my mom, Lena, singing too loud in the kitchen. I remember my dad, Mark, smelling like motor...
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