I was 19 when I was hit by a car on my way to work. Everything went black, and when I woke up, doctors said I might never walk again.
I kept asking for my father, but he only showed up three days later, clearly drunk. My mother had died of breast cancer when I was 12, and I’d supported us both since I was 14 while my father drank his paycheck away.
At the hospital, the doctor explained my spinal injuries. My father looked at me and said, “She’s an adult, not my problem anymore. You take her.” His last words to me were, “Useless, like your mother.”
I was sent to a recovery center and met Carol Hanson, a kind but tough therapist who pushed me through a painful rehab. A year later, I walked again.
When I was discharged, I had nowhere to go. Carol found me crying and offered to take me in. I accepted. She gave me a room — once her late daughter’s — and suggested I return to school. I resisted, but Carol insisted and offered to fund it like a student loan.
Inspired by her, I became a nurse and graduated top of my class. While working at a hospital, I appeared on the news — and days later, my father showed up at my door. He begged for help, reeking of alcohol and sickness. I refused and closed the door on that chapter of my life.
Later, Carol said, “Will you let me adopt you? In my heart, you’re already my daughter.” I cried. I had lost everything — but I’d found the one thing I needed most: a true mother and a loving home.