The first confirmed what every doctor had already said:
My condition was not something the children could catch from hugging me, sharing a room with me, or sitting beside me.
The second document was from a family attorney.
Daniel had already scheduled a meeting to discuss separation.
Jessica stopped smiling.
“You’re leaving me over your father?”
Daniel shook his head.
“No. I’m leaving because you taught our children to fear someone who loved them.”
For the first few weeks at the clinic, I was angry with myself.
I kept thinking I had caused all of it.
But the doctors and therapists kept reminding me to focus on what I could change.
Treatment wasn’t miraculous.
My legs didn’t suddenly become normal.
But slowly, the swelling improved.
I learned safer ways to move.
I became stronger.
For the first time in years, I could walk across a room without feeling completely exhausted.
Then, one Saturday afternoon, there was a knock on my door.
When I opened it, Lily was standing there.
Daniel was behind her.
My grandson stood beside him.
Lily looked at my legs.
Then at my face.
For one terrible second, I wondered if she was still afraid.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Daddy told me the truth.”
She took another step.
“Can I hug you now?”
I couldn’t answer.
I just opened my arms.
Lily ran into them.
Her little brother followed.
