At prom, only one boy asked me to dance because I was in a wheelchair. Thirty years later, I saw him again—and this time, he needed help.

She invited me over after I sent groceries he claimed he didn’t need. Small apartment. Clean but worn. She was sick, sharp, and unimpressed.

“He’s proud,” she said. “Proud men will call it independence until it kills them.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“If you have real work for him, not pity, don’t back off.”

So I didn’t.

He kept coming.