My uncle raised me after I lost my parents. I thought he had told me everything that mattered. Then, days after saying goodbye to him, I opened a letter he had left behind. By the end of the first paragraph, I realized my family’s biggest secret had been waiting for me my entire life.
I was 26, and I hadn’t walked since I was four. Most people heard that and assumed my life started in a hospital bed. But I had a “before.” I don’t remember the crash. My mom, Lena, sang too loud in the kitchen. My dad, Mark, smelled like motor oil and peppermint gum. I had…