You became the person who counted Alejandro’s breaths when pain hit. The person who braced his knees when he tried to shift his weight. The person who whispered, “Again,” when he wanted to quit and “Enough,” when his pride tried to punish his body.
Progress was slow.
Cruelly slow.
Some nights he moved a foot. Some nights he could not even sit upright without trembling. Some nights he screamed into a pillow because the pain in his nerves felt like fire crawling through his bones.
But he kept trying.
That mattered more than speed.
The first time he stood, it lasted three seconds.
You had tied a bedsheet around his waist as a support because the expensive therapy harness sat unused in the corner, locked behind a code neither of you knew. Alejandro pushed from the bed, arms shaking, his face white with effort.
For one breath, his legs held him.
Then they buckled.
You caught him badly, and both of you crashed onto the rug.
For a terrible second, you thought he was hurt.
Then Alejandro laughed.
It was not loud. It was broken, shocked, almost unbelieving. But it was laughter, and it filled the room like a window opening after years of stale air.
“I stood,” he whispered.
You were crying before you realized it.
“Yes,” you said. “You stood.”
He pressed both hands over his face.
“I stood.”
After that, the secret became bigger than both of you.
Alejandro began eating more. He asked for extra protein, though he said it like an order so no one would suspect why. You stole bananas from the kitchen, boiled eggs when the cook wasn’t looking, and saved chicken from staff meals.
His arms strengthened first.
Then his core.
Then his left leg began responding more often.
You tracked everything in a cheap notebook hidden inside a loose panel behind his bookshelf. Dates, exercises, pain levels, movements, mood, medication times. You wrote like your old schoolteachers had taught you, neat and careful, because evidence mattered in houses where poor girls were not believed.
The first strange thing you found was the medication schedule.
Alejandro’s physical therapist came twice a week, always in a rush, always polite but defeated. His name was Dr. Salgado, and he never looked anyone in the eye for too long. One day, while cleaning Alejandro’s desk, you saw his notes inside a folder.
The notes said Alejandro should be doing assisted standing exercises daily.
Daily.
Not twice a week.
The notes also warned against excessive sedatives.
You felt cold.
That night, you asked Alejandro, “What medicine do they give you before therapy?”
He shrugged. “Whatever my mother sends.”
“Does it make you tired?”
“It makes everything heavy.”
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