PART 1 — THE WEIGHT I CARRIED

For eighteen years, I believed love could survive almost any disappointment.

I believed that if I stayed patient enough, defended my husband enough, and worked hard enough to hold our family together, Patrick would eventually stop looking at me as though I had stolen the life he was supposed to have.

I was wrong.

Every year that passed made the distance inside our home a little wider.

And our son was the one paying the highest price.

My name is Serena.

My son, Connor, has used a wheelchair since he was a little boy.

Not once did I look at him and wish he had been someone else.

Connor was funny.

Thoughtful.

Ridiculously intelligent.

The sort of kid who could solve a problem adults had been arguing about for twenty minutes and then act confused when everyone stared at him.

He remembered birthdays.

Noticed when another child was sitting alone.

Fixed computers for neighbors without charging them.

At twelve, he designed a simple attachment for his wheelchair so he could carry his school backpack without it sliding into the wheels.

At thirteen, he modified the design for another boy at his adaptive basketball program.

To me, Connor was never a tragedy.