My uncle raised me after my parents died. After his funeral, I received a letter written in his own handwriting that opened with the line, “I’ve been lying to you your entire life.”

The harness caught me.

Pain shot through muscles I had barely used since childhood.

The therapist stopped the machine.

I was crying.

“You want to take a break?”

I thought about Gus washing my hair over that kitchen sink.

Gus yelling at insurance representatives.

Gus sitting behind me trying to braid my hair with trembling hands.

Gus telling me I was going to live.

“Again.”

So we went again.

And again.

And again.

Months passed.

Progress came in fractions so small that sometimes I wondered whether it counted at all. A muscle responding. A little more balance. Another second upright.

Then last week, something happened.

With the harness supporting me and my therapist standing beside me, I slowly pushed upward.

My legs shook violently.

My arms trembled.

Every instinct in my body expected me to collapse.

But for several seconds, most of my weight rested on my own two feet.