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.

That hurt, because she knew exactly what I’d been doing since the accident—fading away while still being there.

So I went.

She helped me dress. Helped me into my chair. Helped me into the gym, where I spent the first hour by the wall pretending I was okay.

Then they drifted back to the dance floor.

People came in waves.

“You look amazing.”

“I’m so glad you came.”