I was 26 when my uncle’s funeral ended and the house felt quieter than it ever had before. That’s when Mrs. Patel pressed an envelope into my hands. “Your uncle asked me to give you this,” she said softly, her eyes swollen from crying. “And he wanted me to tell you… he’s sorry.” Sorry? For what? I haven’t been able to walk since I was four years old. Most people think my story starts in a hospital room, but it didn’t. I remember life before that. My mom, Lena, singing loudly while cooking. My dad, Mark, coming home smelling like…
