I’ve lived in a wheelchair for most of my life.
Long enough to develop thick skin. Long enough to master the polite smile for strangers who stare too long, or the rehearsed grace for people who tilt their heads and call me brave for buying groceries.
But I was never prepared for it to come from my sister.
I loved the way she talked about her wedding—the flowers, the music, the photographs she’d keep forever. I loved it so much that I had been quietly planning something of my own: a honeymoon she wouldn’t have to budget for, worry about, or postpone. Flights. A hotel by the water. Paid in full.
A surprise from her big sibling.
Then she asked me not to use my wheelchair.
As if it were a hat I could leave at home.
As if my body were a smudge on her perfect day.
When I said I couldn’t, she offered the back row. Out of frame. Out of sight. Out of the memory.
And when I still didn’t bend, she told me not to come.
So I accepted the invitation she really meant.
No me.
No gift.
Yesterday she called, suddenly generous, suddenly “understanding.” But beneath every word was the same question: Does this mean I still get the trip?
That’s when I understood.
An apology that comes with a receipt isn’t love.
So I gave her the only honest present I have left to give.
Absence.