in essays

Over dinner, my children finally talk about the car accident that paralyzed me in my teens. My 10-year-old queries; I explain someone died. “Where were they sitting?” “Next to me.” He melts into a puddle. “I’m glad you weren’t … hurt that bad,” my 5-year-old adds. He can’t bear to say dead. I don’t want him to say it either. He kisses my shoulder, kneels, then kisses my wheelchair. “I’m glad for your wheelchair, too.” Understanding the horror of the alternative. I stay composed, not wanting them to know the pain I’ve had. Their pure, boundless compassion strengthens me.