The day I called the hotel to confirm my son’s prom accessibility and got, “Wheelchair users must enter through the service door,” something inside me snapped.
Seventeen years of watching Jake fight for dignity. Doorways too narrow. Ramps too steep. People’s expectations too low. He never complained—not about muscular dystrophy, not about classmates who avoided him, not even the girl who only agreed to be his prom date because her mom “encouraged” her.
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