My Uncle Raised Me After My Parents Died But After He Passed Away, I Discovered a Secret He Had Hidden for Years

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 light-up sneakers, a purple sippy cup, and way too many opinions.

I don’t remember the crash.

All my life, the story was: there was an accident, my parents died, I lived, my spine didn’t.

The state started talking about “appropriate placements.”