Chapter 13 - THE FIRST STEP I NEVER BELIEVED I'D TAKE
The rehabilitation room smelled like disinfectant and fresh paint.
Large windows overlooked the Chicago skyline.
Parallel bars stood in the center of the room.
And I sat in my wheelchair staring at them like they were the most frightening things I'd ever seen.
My physical therapist, Dr. Rachel Morgan, stood beside me.
"Ready?"
I looked at the bars.
"No."
She smiled.
"That's okay."
Faith stood near the wall.
She wasn't there as my caretaker anymore.
She'd accepted a position helping coordinate the Daniel Willis Foundation.
But she'd asked whether she could attend my therapy session.
I'd said yes.
Not because I needed an audience.
Because I wanted her there.
Dr. Morgan reviewed the plan.
"We're going to practice supported standing. Your team will assist with positioning and safety."
I nodded.
My heart hammered.
Six months ago, I'd commanded entire rooms with a glance.
Now I was terrified of trying to stand.
The therapist helped position my feet.
An assistant checked the support equipment.
Then Dr. Morgan looked at me.
"Whenever you're ready."
I gripped the bars.
My arms trembled.
I shifted my weight.
Pain flickered through my right leg.
I stopped.
"Breathe," Dr. Morgan said.
Faith smiled faintly.
I'd heard that word before.
The first time she touched my leg.
The first time someone treated me like a person instead of a problem.
I took a deep breath.
Then tried again.
With assistance, my body rose from the wheelchair.
For a moment, I couldn't believe it.
I was upright.
Not independently.
Not without support.
But standing.
My throat tightened.
Dr. Morgan smiled.
"Good. Hold for a few seconds."
I stared straight ahead.
The room blurred.
Then my legs weakened.
The team helped me sit safely.
I covered my face.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Faith approached.
"Dominic?"
I looked up.
She was crying.
"That was incredible."
I shook my head.
"I barely stood."
She smiled through tears.
"You stood."
I laughed shakily.
"With three people holding me."
"And?"
I stared.
She shrugged.
"Progress doesn't stop counting because somebody helped you."
Something inside me broke.
For six months, I'd believed needing assistance made me less of a man.
Now I understood how wrong I'd been.
I reached for her hand.
"Thank you."
She squeezed my fingers.
"You're welcome."
Over the following months, therapy became part of my routine.
Some days went well.
Others were frustrating.
There were setbacks.
Pain.
Exhaustion.
Moments when I wanted to throw something across the room.
But I kept going.
Not because I was guaranteed to walk independently again.
Because I wanted to reclaim whatever function was possible.
And because I no longer believed my worth depended on standing.
Then one afternoon, after a difficult session, Richard called.
"Dominic, the patent attorneys have an update."
I frowned.
"What?"
"They've completed their review of Daniel Willis's research."
My pulse quickened.
"And?"
"His original patent assignment appears fraudulent."
I looked toward Faith.
She noticed my expression.
"What happened?"
I smiled.
"Your brother's work."
Her eyes widened.
Richard continued.
"We believe his estate may have a substantial ownership claim."
I swallowed.
"How substantial?"
Richard took a breath.
"Potentially millions in recovered royalties and licensing rights."
Faith stared.
Then covered her mouth.
May you like
For years, she'd believed Daniel's life ended with nothing but debt and grief.
Now the world might finally recognize what he'd created.
