Adam’s foot lifted. It came down. Another lift. Another step. Three steps.
Andrew watched his youngest son walk toward Angela’s outstretched arms. His phone slipped from his fingers. It clattered against the desk. But he didn’t hear it. His knees buckled. Andrew slid down from his chair, back scraping against the desk, until he sat on the floor. His legs wouldn’t hold him. On the phone screen, face down but still playing, he could hear Angela’s voice.
“Yes. Oh my God, yes. Look at you. Look at what you’re doing.”
The boys reached her. She gathered all three into her arms, pulling them against her chest, sobbing openly.
“I knew it,” she cried. “I knew you could. I knew it.”
Andrew sat on his office floor, unable to move. Tears poured down his face. His whole body shook. Two years. Two years of doctors saying never. Two years of specialists confirming impossible. Two years of accepting that his sons would spend their lives in wheelchairs. And there they were, standing, walking, reaching toward a woman who refused to believe what the world told her.
Andrew pressed both hands against his face and wept. Not quiet tears. Not controlled grief. This was something deeper, something breaking open inside him that had been locked away since the day Sarah died. Every failure. Every betrayal. Every night spent watching screens instead of holding his sons. The shame. The fear. The hope he’d buried so deep he forgot it existed. It all came flooding out in waves that shook his entire body.
His sons could walk. His sons could walk. And he’d almost given up on them.
Andrew didn’t know how long he sat on that floor. Minutes, maybe longer. When he finally found the strength to stand, his legs felt hollow. He grabbed the edge of the desk and pulled himself up. His phone lay face down, still showing the living room feed. Andrew didn’t pick it up. He didn’t need to watch anymore.
He walked out of his office on unsteady feet. Down the long hallway. Past the empty frames on the walls. Past the silence he’d built around himself like armor. The living room door was open. He stopped in the doorway. Angela sat on the floor, all three boys in her lap. They were exhausted from the effort, small bodies limp against her chest. She held them like they were made of something precious. Her face was wet with tears, but she was smiling. She looked up when she sensed him there.
Their eyes met. Andrew expected to see triumph in her face. Pride. A look that said, I told you so. But that’s not what he saw. He saw compassion. For him. Angela didn’t say anything. Just watched him with those steady eyes, holding his sons like she’d always held them. Like they mattered.
Andrew’s legs gave out again. He knelt in the doorway, unable to take another step.
“How?” His voice cracked. “How did you know?”
Angela looked down at the boys, then back at him. “I didn’t know, Mr. Grant.” Her voice was soft, gentle. “I just believed.”
Something broke inside Andrew. The last wall. The final barrier. He crawled forward on his knees until he reached them. His hands shook as he touched Philip’s face. Then Eric’s. Then Adam’s. His sons. For two years, he’d watched them through screens. Loved them from a distance. Kept his heart locked away because losing more would kill him. But they were here. Alive. Fighting. Growing. And he’d almost missed it.
Andrew gathered all three boys into his arms. Pressed his face against their small heads. Breathed in their scent.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
He said it over and over. An apology for every day he’d spent hiding. Every night he’d chosen fear over faith. Every moment he’d let grief steal from them. Angela quietly moved back, giving him space. But Andrew reached out and grabbed her hand.
“Stay,” he said. “Please.”
She nodded. They sat there together on the living room floor. A broken father holding his sons. A faithful woman who’d refused to give up. Four wheelchairs pushed against the wall, no longer needed. Andrew looked at Angela through blurred vision.
“You gave them their legs,” he said.
She shook her head slowly. “No, Mr. Grant. They gave themselves their legs. I just reminded them they could try.”
Andrew closed his eyes. Sarah would have loved this woman. Sarah would have loved this moment. And somewhere, he believed, she was watching.
The afternoon light shifted through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. The house felt different now. Not empty. Not abandoned. Alive. Andrew held his sons tighter, feeling the steady rhythm of their breathing against his chest. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. More therapy. More work. More challenges. But holding his sons in the center of the living room, Andrew Grant wasn’t afraid of tomorrow. He finally understood that impossible was just a word people used when they were too afraid to try.
