He squeezed his eyes shut. “I hated seeing you struggle growing up. And instead of facing that… I tried to pretend it didn’t exist. I tried to make it disappear.”
He looked up then, eyes wet. “But you’re not something to hide. You’re my mother. You’re my home.”
Behind him, my brother arrived, breathless, and quietly leaned against the hallway wall like he didn’t want to interrupt whatever was happening.
I rolled back a little to give Liam space, because my hands were shaking too.
“Stand up,” I whispered.
He didn’t move. “Not until you say something.”
I exhaled slowly. “Liam… I am furious.”
He flinched.
“And I’m heartbroken,” I added. “Because you took the worst fear I’ve lived with for twenty years—that people will love me until I’m inconvenient—and you made it true.”
Tears slid down his cheeks.
“But,” I said, voice softening, “you’re here. And you stopped it.”
He nodded hard. “I did. I chose you. I should’ve chosen you from the start.”
I reached forward and placed my hand on his cheek. He leaned into it like he was starving.
“You don’t get to fix this with one apology,” I told him. “It will take time.”
“I’ll do anything,” he said. “Anything.”
I held his gaze. “Then do it right. Not just for me. For yourself.”
His throat bobbed. “I will.”
He finally stood, and for a moment he just looked at my wheelchair—really looked at it—not with embarrassment, not with avoidance, but like he was seeing the truth.
Then he knelt again, this time beside me, and wrapped his arms around my shoulders carefully, like he remembered how to hold me.
“I forgot our team,” he whispered. “But I’m not forgetting again.”
Later that day, Jessica came—still in her dress, mascara streaked, face tight with anger that kept slipping into fear.
“I didn’t mean to—” she started, then stopped when she saw the “contract” in Liam’s hand.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t insult her.
