Her legs trembled beneath her from disuse and nerve damage.
“You doing okay?” Miguel asked with concern.
Hannah nodded, tears already forming in her eyes.
“I’m just doing something my uncle wanted me to do.”
The treadmill machine started slowly.
Hannah’s knees buckled immediately, but the harness caught her weight.
“Again,” Hannah said through gritted teeth.
They tried again and again.
Last week, for the first time since she was four years old, Hannah stood with most of her weight supported by her own legs.
It lasted only a few seconds and wasn’t graceful at all.
She shook violently and cried from the effort and emotion.
But she was upright under her own power.
She could actually feel the solid floor beneath her feet.
In her mind, she heard Ray’s voice clearly.
“You’re gonna live, kiddo.”
Does Hannah forgive her uncle for his role in her parents’ deaths?
The answer isn’t simple or consistent.
Some days, absolutely not.
Some days she only feels the burning anger about what his pride and temper cost her.
Other days, she remembers different things.
Rough, calloused hands supporting her shoulders during transfers.
Terrible, uneven braids that he tried so hard to perfect.
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