“WE DON’T RUN A NURSING HOME,” my father spat, his voice thick with the cheap beer he’d been nursing since noon. He blocked the doorway with his heavy frame, a barrier of flesh and flannel that looked impenetrable. “Go to the VA. We don’t have space for cripples.”
He didn’t know that the roof he was standing under, and the oak floorboards he was standing on, had been paid for by the very legs I lost overseas.
The taxi idled at the curb behind me, its exhaust sputtering into the gray, drizzly afternoon. I gripped the rims of my wheelchair, the cold metal biting into my calloused palms. I had maneuvered myself up the driveway—the same asphalt slope I used to shovel every winter as a child, back when my knees worked and my biggest worry was a math test. Now, the incline felt like a mountain.
I had expected… something. A banner, maybe. A hug. A hesitant smile. I was wearing my dress blues, the fabric stiff and immaculate, medals pinned perfectly to my chest. They caught the dull light, gleaming gold and silver, but Frank—my father—didn’t look at them. He looked at the empty space where my legs used to be, his face twisting into a scowl of inconvenience.
