My Uncle Raised Me After My Parents Died

I was 26, and I hadn’t walked since I was four.

Most people heard that and assumed my life started in a hospital bed.

But I had a “before.”

I don’t remember the crash.

My mom, Lena, sang too loud in the kitchen. My dad, Mark, smelled like motor oil and peppermint gum.

I had light-up sneakers, a purple sippy cup, and way too many opinions.

I don’t remember the crash.

All my life, the story was: there was an accident, my parents died, I lived, my spine didn’t.

The state started talking about “appropriate placements.”

Then my mom’s brother walked in.

“We’ll find a loving home.”

Ray looked like he’d been built out of concrete and bad weather. Big hands. Permanent frown.

The social worker, Karen, stood by my hospital bed with a clipboard.

“We’ll find a loving home,” she said. “We have families experienced with—”