My daughter shouted as she rushed over, throwing herself in front of me to stop the chair from falling. Her hand scraped against the metal frame, tearing open a deep cut, blood running down her arm.
She didn’t even flinch from the pain. After getting me upright again, her face went pale from fright as she yelled at Hayden.
“Hayden, you almost hurt Mom!”
My son glared at me.
“She’s paralyzed. She can’t even feel pain, so what are you so worked up about?”
“So annoying. I lost our qualifying match again!”
He muttered a curse under his breath and stomped back to his room, eager to get back to his game.
My daughter, still shaken, checked me carefully from head to toe to make sure I wasn’t hurt.
Only after confirming I was fine did she turn her attention to the wheelchair, ignoring the blood dripping from her own hand.
When she noticed a clasp had come loose, she immediately brought out the toolbox. She tightened every bolt and screw, working until late at night.
Meanwhile, the live-stream comments were full of outrage.
[I can’t stop crying. Where can you find such a good daughter? Her hand is bleeding badly, yet she only worries about her mom.]