The state began discussing foster care. A social worker stood by my hospital bed, clipboard in hand, smiling carefully.
“We’ll find a loving home,” she said.
That’s when my uncle stepped in.
Ray.
Big hands. Permanent frown. Built like cement and storms.
“No,” he said. “She’s mine.”
He had no kids, no partner, no idea. But he brought me home to his small house, which smelled of coffee, motor oil, and something steady.
He learned everything the hard way—watching nurses, scribbling notes in a worn notebook. How to move me without hurting me. How to lift me like I was both heavy and fragile.
The first night, his alarm went off every two hours. He shuffled into my room, hair messy, muttering, “Pancake time,” as he gently turned me.
When I whimpered, he whispered, “I got you, kiddo.”
He built ramps from plywood. Fought insurance companies on speakerphone. Braided my hair poorly. Bought pads and mascara after watching tutorials. Washed my hair in the kitchen sink with one hand under my neck.
“You’re not less,” he’d say when I cried about dances or crowded rooms. “You hear me? You’re not less.”
My world was small. Ray made it bigger—shelves at my height, a welded tablet stand, a planter box for basil because I yelled at cooking shows.
Then he grew tired.
