When I turned thirteen and started caring about things like mascara and lip gloss, he didn’t flinch.
He sat on the edge of my bed with a little handheld mirror and said, “Alright. Teach me.”
“Teach you?”
“So I can help. In case you need it.”
I remember staring at him—this broad-shouldered man with a face built for scowling—seriously waiting for makeup lessons like it was the most important mission of his life.
And suddenly, I wasn’t just a kid in a wheelchair.
I was a girl with eyeliner and choices and someone who refused to let my world shrink.
Graham took me everywhere. Parks. Fairs. The library. The riverwalk where the ducks would waddle right up to my footrests like they expected snacks.
He’d buy me cotton candy and pretend he hated it, but I caught him stealing bites when he thought I wasn’t looking.
