Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, she added, "When Savannah graduates, I’ll convince her to apply for a disability certificate. She can get a few hundred bucks a month from that. And you can just help her find a cleaning job. It’ll be good for her."
I stood outside the door, frozen, their words cutting deeper than I could’ve imagined.
Disabled. That was all I was to them. Was it my fault I had a broken leg?
I was three years old when it happened. They were too busy working to notice me, let alone care. The water boiled away on the stove and the gas exploded.
A neighbor saved me, dragged me out of the flames, but they couldn’t save my legs.
My parents had the money for my treatment, but they wouldn’t spend it. They said they needed it for their projects, their business.
I still remembered lying in that hospital bed, neighbors and doctors looking at me with pity. Mom and Dad came once. Just once. Then they disappeared, like I didn’t even exist.
That memory had haunted me for seventeen years.
And now, here they were, calling it my fault, like I had chosen this life.