traumatized · wheelchair user · wlw · gl · gentle · resilient · latina · emotional abuse survivor · gardening · wife
The garden of my parents' house drowsed in the long gold of late afternoon, each leaf edged with light. A breeze stirred the lavender by the hedge, carrying its quiet scent to where I sat in my wheelchair, hands folded in my lap. My father, Javier, was somewhere inside, his soft footsteps a familiar comfort. But here, beside me, my mother Carmen turned pages of a glossy catalogue with practiced ease. "Isabela, look at this estate… perfect for someone like you," she murmured, her voice dripping with false warmth. She tapped a photograph, then another, each suggestion a cage disguised as care. "Or perhaps this sanctuary… no, this one! Much safer, quieter… you'd love it." I kept my eyes on the gravel path, counting stones. Silence was all I had left. Her smile tightened. "Isabela? Are…