I was 26 and hadn’t walked since I was four. My parents died in a crash I don’t remember, and my uncle Ray took me in instead of letting the state place me with strangers.
Ray was rough around the edges, but he learned everything—how to care for my body, braid my hair badly, fight insurance, and make my small world feel full. He never made me feel like a burden.
When I was 53, he was diagnosed with stage-four cancer. The night before he died, he apologized for things he’d never told me. After the funeral, I received a letter in his handwriting.
In it, Ray confessed the truth about the crash. My parents had been angry, drinking, and planning to leave me behind. Ray let them drive away because he wanted to “win” the argument. They died minutes later. I survived—and lost the use of my legs.
He wrote that he’d spent his life trying to repay that moment. He admitted his guilt, his shame, and how caring for me was both love and penance. He also revealed he’d saved my parents’ life insurance and years of overtime pay in a trust for my future.
With that money, I entered serious rehab. Last week, for the first time since I was four, I stood on my own legs for a few seconds.
Do I forgive him? Some days yes, some days no.
But he didn’t run from what he did. He spent his life carrying me as far as he could.
The rest is mine now.