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where that was.
    This triggered some nasty fights. I’d hear them yelling, and I wanted to hide and cover my ears. I wished I had a brother or sister, someone to provide perspective or comfort or just to share what I was feeling. That was especially true on those occasions when things got physical.
    One day when I was in the fourth grade, my mother pickedme up from school, waiting for me in her maroon Mazda 929. I hopped in the car and saw that she was wearing these large, Jackie O–style shades. I could see that her lips and cheeks were swollen. I knew why. While I didn’t witness my father hit my mother, I wasn’t oblivious to the evidence he left behind.
    Later that evening, my father came home accompanied by two police officers. I could see him at the back door, underneath the porch light. After repeated knocking and no answer, he yelled, “Open the damn door!”
    I was trembling, because I didn’t know what was going on or how to even react. My mother started yelling at him through the door, and continued to do so once he came in. The police officers escorted my father out once he had grabbed some of his belongings. The rest of that evening was awful as my mother cried the entire night while I did my best to console her.
    Relatives and friends were aware of this occurrence, but no one called 911. No one thought about keeping her from going back home to him. My best guess was that she was thinking of me and not her own well-being. To this day, we as a family have never fully discussed my father’s violent behavior. I’m their only child and I still don’t know how to fully confront this part of my past.
    My dad and I have spoken only once about his hitting my mom. It was during a therapy session after my accident. He was there; she wasn’t. The therapist asked me, “Who are you, Jason? Who do you think you are as a person?” and I talked about being a combination of my parents. I told him I felt lost without basketball and that I was lucky to have my parents there to help me through this difficult time. Not everyone who had been in my life when I was riding high stuck around for this part of the trip.
    I spoke to the therapist about the power struggle I had with my dad and how much I wanted to prove to him that I could be my own man. But with a broken body, being my own man was harder than ever. I was dependent on him—again. I told the therapist about a recent confrontation my parents had had where they were both up in each other’s face. My dad had pushed my mom to get her out of his way. My first instinct was to step to him, which would have been a first; however, I was stuck in my fucking wheelchair. Go figure—the only time I ever conjured the courage to confront my dad out of respect for my mom was when I didn’t have the ability to physically stand up. I just screamed and yelled at the both of them to please stop. I felt like that little kid back in fourth grade who didn’t know what would become of his parents when emotions got out of control.
    That session was a defining day in my life, because it was the first time I had ever heard my father express genuine remorse about the things he’d done, the decisions he’d made. He didn’t go into specifics about particular incidents, but he said, “I . . . I made mistakes. I was a different person back then. I was working a lot, I was drinking a lot . . . and, well, I’m really sorry for it.” He was extremely emotional, a side of my father I rarely saw.
    Sitting at that table across from him, hands clenched tightly, I stared intensely into his eyes, listening to him talk filled me with a mixture of confusion and anger. I truly wanted to forgive my father, but I honestly didn’t know if I had the capacity to do so. Truth be told, I had imagined this moment countless times before and knew exactly what I would say to him. I would say, Your apology isn’t good enough. Why