She had ballet lessons.
Designer dresses.
Expensive birthdays.
Vacations.
I had aluminum crutches that didn’t fit properly because my parents said a quality prosthetic was “too expensive for something unnecessary.”
Whenever guests came over, Mom would send me upstairs.
“People don’t need to ask awkward questions.”
She wasn’t protecting me.
She was hiding me.
By sixteen, I understood exactly where I stood.
That year, my parents hired a photographer to take a formal family portrait.
I crossed the living room using my crutches.
One slipped on the hardwood floor.
I stumbled.
A glass of red wine fell onto one of Mom’s expensive white rugs.
My father didn’t ask whether I was hurt.
He went into the kitchen, came back with a black garbage bag, and pushed it against my chest.
“We are tired of carrying you.”
I stared at him.
“Pack your things.”
I thought he was bluffing.
