In the living room, Linda was dusting her figurines.
“Linda,” I said carefully, “have you seen my prosthetic leg? It was right by the bed.”
Without even turning, she said, “Maybe you misplaced your little gadget.”
That word — gadget — was deliberate. My chest tightened. I searched the house, room by room, until I opened the garage and found it shoved under a pile of rusted car parts. The carbon-fiber socket was cracked, beyond repair.
I carried it back inside, my arms trembling. “You hid it. You damaged it. Why?”
She finally looked at me and sighed, like I was a child throwing a tantrum. “Because my daughter cried all night. She’s devastated you’re leaving her behind. Maybe if you cared more about her feelings than that stupid leg, we wouldn’t be here.”
“That ‘stupid leg’ is how I walk,” I snapped.
“You walk fine with crutches. You’re fine,” she said with a smirk.
I realized then that this wasn’t about Emily feeling left out. This was about control. About humiliation. Linda wanted to remind me that in her house, she had the power.
I canceled the trip. Back on crutches, my arms ached, my ribs burned, and my pride crumbled. I told my friends to go without me. That night, Emily excused Linda’s actions. “She just didn’t want me to feel left out,” she whispered. “My mom cares about me.”
“And what about me?” I asked. “What about my independence, my safety?” She had no answer.
The next morning, I recorded Linda. I slid my phone into my hoodie pocket, hit record, and casually asked her, “Do you really think damaging someone’s leg is justified?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. I hid it. I damaged it. And I’d do it again if it means my daughter isn’t crying over some selfish man.”
That was all I needed. I went straight to a lawyer. Six weeks later, the judgment came down. Linda was ordered to pay the full $7,000 for a replacement, plus my legal fees. Watching her smugness vanish in that courtroom was a moment I’ll never forget.
I moved back into my apartment as soon as it was ready. A day later, Emily showed up at my door, mascara streaked down her cheeks.
“You ruined her life,” she accused.
“No,” I said evenly. “She ruined her life when she sabotaged mine. I didn’t do this. She did.”
“She’s my mom, Chad!”
“And I was your partner,” I said. “But love without respect isn’t love. And you chose silence over respect.”
She didn’t fight me after that. She just left, and I didn’t stop her.
My new prosthetic fits better than the last. It’s lighter, smoother, stronger. The first time I wore it, I walked to the lake near my apartment, each step steady, each stride a quiet victory.
Some people fall when they’re pushed. Others learn to stand taller, on whatever leg they’ve got.
