The wheelchair mechanic knocks at the door. My husband, Justin, answers, and a hefty man wearing steel-toed shoes comes through our kitchen carrying a small tool box. It’s 2016 and I’m in the living room, strapping orthotics on my five year old, Fiona. The mechanic stands beside her empty wheelchair, which is waiting in the dining room.
“Do you need anything from us?” I call out, pulling the laces of her shoe tight.
“Just the passenger,” he says gruffly.
I hurry, and when Fiona is all laced up, I lift her to her feet and send her over. In a thump-thump rhythm of deliberate, confident steps, she walks to her wheelchair, a lean, glimmering machine custom-made for her. She almost never uses it now that she walks, but when she…
