Then, a week before Christmas, things became chaotic.

He was driving to his grandparents’ house on a snowy night.

Or that’s what I believed for 15 years.

The call came while I was on my bedroom floor, wrapping presents.

His mom was screaming on the phone. I caught a few words.

“I’m not leaving.”

“Accident.”

“Truck.”

“He can’t feel his legs.”

The hospital was all harsh lights and stale air.

He lay there in a bed with rails and wires. Neck brace. Machines beeping. His eyes were open, though.

I went home numb.

“I’m here,” I told him, grabbing his hand. “I’m not leaving.”

The doctor pulled his parents and me aside.

“Spinal cord injury,” he said. “Paralysis from the waist down. We don’t expect recovery.”

His mom sobbed. His dad stared at the floor.

I went home numb.

“This is not what you need.”

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