Mia smiled.
For the first time since Donna had snatched those flowers, I saw something fierce return to my daughter’s eyes.
“And maybe I’ll walk someday,” she added.
My heart stopped.
Mia had never said that publicly.
Doctors had been careful with us.
Very careful.
Her spinal injury was incomplete, which meant they refused to use words like never.
But they refused to promise anything either.
Rehabilitation had given her tiny improvements.
A twitch in one foot.
A strange sensation when physical therapists brushed the sole of her left heel.
Occasional tingling near her knees.
But walking remained a distant possibility nobody wanted to place in a child’s hands like a promise that might break.
Mia understood that.
She had learned far too much medical language for a ten-year-old.
But she still dreamed.
“And if I don’t,” she continued, “that’s okay too.”
The applause softened.
