My parents died instantly.
I survived.
And my spinal injury left me unable to walk.
I could barely hold the letter.
Then Gus confessed something even harder.
When he first saw me lying in that hospital bed, part of him resented me.
Not because I had done anything wrong.
Because every time he looked at me, he saw proof of what his anger had cost.
“You were completely innocent,” he wrote. “The only thing you ever did was survive.”
Taking me home had begun, in part, as guilt.
But somewhere along the way, guilt became something else.
I became his daughter in every way except the paperwork.
Every two-hour alarm, every insurance battle, every wheelchair ramp, every terrible braid, every bath, every meal and sleepless night stopped being punishment and became simply what a father does for someone he loves.
Then I reached the part of the letter that made me stop breathing.
