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.

After that, no one questioned him.

The medical part took longer. I didn’t force it. I gave him a specialist’s name. He ignored it for six days—until his knee gave out at work and he let me take him.

The doctor said some damage couldn’t be reversed, but it could be improved—less pain, better movement.

In the parking lot, Marcus sat on the curb, staring.

“I thought this was just my life now,” he said.

“It was your life,” I told him. “It doesn’t have to be all of it.”

He looked at me for a long time.

“I don’t know how to let people help me,” he said quietly.