Chapter 15
Ava took ten steps in October.
Then twelve.
Then sixteen.
Every step cost her.
Sweat.
Tears.
Anger.
Exhaustion.
She hated the braces.
Loved the braces.
Threw one across the therapy room once.
Dr. Lin said, “Good distance.”
Ava cried harder because she wanted to laugh.
Noah became her unofficial coach.
He was terrible at being gentle.
“Stop glaring at the floor,” he said one afternoon. “It didn’t trip you.”
Ava snapped, “You try walking after four years.”
He stood up.
“I did. From Nevada to three shelters.”
Ava went quiet.
Then she said, “That was mean.”
He nodded.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t do that again.”
“Okay.”
They went back to therapy.
That was friendship.
Not perfect softness.
Truth that stayed.
I started therapy too.
Ava insisted.
“If I have to talk about feelings, you do too.”
Fair.
My therapist asked why I gave Celeste so much control.
I wanted to blame grief.
I wanted to blame work.
I wanted to blame trust.
In the end, I said, “Because she made decisions when I couldn’t.”
“And what did that cost?”
I thought of Ava’s blue pills.
Noah’s stolen shoes.
My daughter’s fear.
“Too much.”
At home, I changed everything.
Ava chose her doctors.
Ava approved who entered her room.
Ava kept copies of her own medical records.
No one spoke over her during appointments.
No one touched her wheelchair without asking.
No one used the word impossible in her presence unless discussing homework.
We moved the foundation offices out of the mansion and into the hospital district.
Renamed it The Ava Mobility Trust.
Ava hated that.
“Too much attention.”
So we changed it.
The Open Step Fund.
She approved.
Noah designed the logo.
A small shoe beside a wheelchair wheel.
I cried when I saw it.
Ava rolled her eyes.
May you like
Noah said, “Rich people cry weird.”
He was not wrong.
