Chapter 6 - THE FIRST TIME MY FOOT MOVED
Rehabilitation was humiliating.
There is no better word.
I controlled companies employing thousands of people.
Yet three therapists could reduce me to sweat, profanity, and shaking muscles in twenty minutes.
Standing frame.
Electrical stimulation.
Harness work.
Parallel bars.
Again.
Again.
Again.
For six weeks, nothing dramatic happened.
Then one Tuesday morning, Dr. Chen asked me to try moving my right ankle.
I tried.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
“Daniel.”
“What?”
“Stop looking at it like an enemy.”
“It started it.”
She laughed.
“Again.”
I closed my eyes.
Thought about the movement instead of the failure.
Something happened.
Tiny.
My foot shifted.
Maybe half an inch.
Everyone froze.
I stared.
“Did that move?”
The therapist smiled.
“Yes.”
“Do it again.”
“I can't.”
“Try.”
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
Anger surged.
Dr. Chen said:
“You received one movement.”
“I want two.”
“And that is why therapists age badly.”
I laughed despite myself.
Then cried.
I hated that part.
Not because I was ashamed.
Because hope hurt exactly as much as I remembered.
Elena found me afterward.
“You moved your foot.”
“Once.”
“Once is not nothing.”
“Don't start.”
She sat beside me.
“I wasn't going to say miracle.”
“Good.”
“I was going to say work.”
Better.
Then my phone rang.
Vincent.
First call in weeks.
I answered.
“Daniel.”
His voice was calm.
“We need to talk.”
“We will.”
“Privately.”
“No.”
Silence.
“I hear you're doing rehabilitation again.”
My blood went cold.
That information was private.
Very private.
“Who told you?”
He laughed softly.
“Family hears things.”
Wrong answer.
Then:
“You should be careful chasing impossible outcomes.”
Five years earlier, that sentence might have broken me.
Now?
“Vincent.”
“Yes?”
“My foot moved this morning.”
Silence.
Beautiful silence.
Then:
“Congratulations.”
His voice had changed.
Fear.
May you like
I smiled.
“For once, cousin, I think you mean that very differently than I do.”
