My mother-in-law ruined the wedding dress my daughter had spent months sewing, then mocked her for it. But when my husband returned with a mysterious box, her smug smile disappeared.
Three years ago, my twelve-year-old daughter, Paige, decided that jumping off a backyard trampoline onto an inflatable pool float was a brilliant idea.
She missed the float.
Recovery was miserable.
The doctors called it a double fracture. Paige called it “a minor miscalculation.” I called it the reason I started finding gray hairs in my bathroom mirror.
Recovery was miserable.
Paige had always been independent, and suddenly she needed help with practically everything.
The worst part was watching her struggle with tasks she’d once done without thinking.
“We’ve got time.”
One afternoon, she burst into tears because she couldn’t pick up a coin during physical therapy.
Colin, her therapist, sat beside her.
“We’ve got time, sweetheart. Try again.”
