One feeding.
One step.
One adjustment.
My mother stayed.
We figured it out.
And I learned how to live again.
Not the life I had before.
The one I had now.
The prosthetic worked.
But not well enough.
So I started fixing it.
Late nights at the kitchen table.
Sketching.
Testing.
Building something better.
I didn’t talk about it.
I just kept going.
A patent.
A partner.
A company.
Slowly, it became real.
By the time the girls started preschool—
it was working.
Then one day, a file landed on my desk.
A property.
