“Your spinal cord recovered more than a year ago,” he said. “Physically, you were capable. The paralysis wasn’t structural anymore.”
She stared at him. “Then what was it?”
“You believed you couldn’t walk. Completely. Your brain stopped sending signals because you were convinced it was useless. It’s called psychosomatic paralysis.”
Tears streamed down her face. Three years confined to a chair. Three years of therapy. Of pity.
Because of a mistake.
And silence.
“How do you know this?” she asked hoarsely. “Who are you?”
“My name is Noah Ramirez. My mother worked as a surgical nurse during your operation.”
The air left her lungs.
“Worked?”
“She passed away six months ago. Cancer.” His voice softened. “Before she died, she told me everything. She made me promise to tell you. She was in that operating room. She saw what happened. It haunted her.”
Margaret covered her mouth.
“She left you a letter,” he said. “And copies of internal reports she kept hidden.”
From his worn backpack, he pulled out an envelope and a thick folder. He placed them carefully in her lap.
“My mom said you deserved the truth. And the chance to stand again.”
Margaret opened the letter with shaking hands.