I’ve been in a wheelchair for 20 years, believing I was a burden. Yesterday I came home early from work and heard my mother laughing as she said, ‘She doesn’t know yet’.

“Don’t call the police yet,” I told the doctor, wiping away my tears. “I need to go home.” “I can’t let you go back to that environment; it’s dangerous.” “They don’t understand. If I report them now, they’ll get lawyers, hide the money, play the victim. I need them to confess. I need them to see me.”

I returned home at dusk. My parents and Emily were in the living room watching television, that image of a happy family they so liked to project. “Amelia!” my mother exclaimed when she saw me come in. “We were worried sick! Where were you? We called your work and they said you left at noon.”

I went into the room. I hadn’t taken my afternoon pills. The IV drip at the hospital had helped a little. I felt a sharp pain in my legs, a pain that I’d once been told was “bad,” but that I now knew was life returning to my muscles.

“I went for a walk,” I said, my voice sounding strangely calm. “I needed to think.” “Think about what, honey?” my father asked, turning off the TV. “About the future. About us.”

I approached them. I stopped right in the center of the rug, in front of the three of them. “Mom, Dad, Emily… I had a really strange dream today. I dreamt I could walk. I dreamt that all of this”—I pointed to my chair—”was a lie.”

I saw them tense up. Emily exchanged a quick glance with my mother. “Oh, honey, you know those dreams are normal,” my mother said in her sweet, venomous tone. “It’s your subconscious wishing for impossible things. Take your medicine and go get some rest; you’re agitated.”

My father took the bottle of pills from his pocket. He always carried it with him. “Here,” he said, handing out two blue capsules. “They’ll help you sleep.”

I looked at the pills. Then I looked at them. At the people who gave me life and then took it away. “No,” I said. “What?” my mother asked, her smile faltering. “I said no. I don’t want to sleep. I want to walk.”

I placed my hands on the armrests of the chair. I felt the trembling in my arms, the weakness in my legs, but I also felt the fury. Fury is a powerful fuel. “Amelia, what are you doing?” my father asked, standing up, alarmed. “You’re going to hurt yourself!”

I pushed myself up. My legs were shaking violently, like jelly during an earthquake. The pain was excruciating, like a thousand needles piercing my thighs. But I gritted my teeth. I groaned. “Sit down right now!” Emily shouted, losing her composure.