At my sister’s party, I was sitting in my wheelchair near the edge of the dance floor while she told the guests I was exaggerating about my injury. Then, jokingly, she pulled my wheelchair abruptly toward the champagne pyramid, and the glasses shattered in front of everyone. As the room fell silent, she was too busy smiling to notice who was already behind her, calmly on the phone with emergency services—requesting security’s intervention.

I met her at the Research Institute in Switzerland. She was a volunteer there, helping patients navigate the foreign medical system, translating German medical jargon into understandable English, and generally being the kind of person who restores your faith in humanity.

She told me she had cared for her paralyzed sister for ten years before she died from complications. When she met me, Mari said I reminded her of her sister.

The same stubborn determination, the same dark humor in the face of our situation, the same refusal to be defined by our limitations.

For me, Mari filled a void whose magnitude I hadn’t even realized. She became the caring, understanding, and protective sister I never had. The sister Cassie could never be.

My phone vibrates in the bag attached to my wheelchair. I almost want to ignore it. I’ve gotten into the habit of ignoring things that don’t serve me, but something compels me to check.

An email from Mom. The subject line is empty, but there is an attachment: a photo of a handwritten letter.

My stomach clenches when I open it.

The handwriting is definitely Cassie’s: still that beautiful cursive from her Catholic school days, even after two years in prison. She was released last week for good behavior. According to Mom’s brief message, Cassie refused to go back to live with our parents. She found a job as a waitress in a small Midwestern town, working at a bakery, and rents a tiny apartment above a hardware store.

The letter itself is short.

« Matilda, I’m sorry I amputated your legs and shattered your lifelong dream. I don’t expect you to forgive me. My time in prison has taught me how awful I was. I’m learning again how to be a decent human being. Take care of yourself, Matilda. »

I read it twice, then a third time. My heart is light.

Not because of the apologies — words are worthless, and Cassie’s words were always the most beautiful when they mattered the least.

But because I realize, sitting here with the sun on my face and Mari humming beside me, that it doesn’t matter. No more resentment burning in my chest. No more imagining what I would say to her if I saw her again. No more rage keeping me awake—and no more need to re-establish contact, no more obligation to rebuild something that never truly existed.

Cassie is learning to become a good person. Good for her. She can do it without me.

I turn off my phone and put it in my bag, leaving the past exactly where it belongs.

« Husband, » I said, smiling at him. « Let’s go get some ice cream. It’s on me. »

Mari laughed, a frank and joyful laugh that made strangers turn around and smile. She got up and stood behind my wheelchair.

« Let’s go, little sister. »

She pushes me along the coastal path, and our laughter mingles with the sound of the waves. The breeze tastes of salt and freedom.

This is my real family. This is my real life.

And damn, that feels good.