I am thirteen years old. I was born with cerebral palsy. I cannot walk or stand on my own. My legs don’t obey my brain. My body moves without my will. But I have learned to live with it. My mind is sharp, and my heart feels everything.

When I was five and a half years old, my mother left us. She silently packed her suitcase, didn’t say a word to me. She didn’t hug me or look back. That was the last time I saw her. She thought I was a hurdle in her career. She chose freedom over being a mother. I was just a child.

One day I overheard my maternal grandfather saying, “Your mother had to give up her career because of you.” That sentence broke me from within. I realized it wasn’t just her departure—the entire family believed I was a burden. That hurt deeply.

But my grandparents gave me immense love. They never treated me as a burden. They told me stories, fed me sweets, and made me feel special.

Now my grandfather is 83 years old. Even at this age, he stands by me. He never lets me feel alone. Despite being retired, he still helps my father with my medical expenses. His quiet support gives me hope.

Then, one morning in December, everything changed. My grandmother suddenly passed away. It felt like the ground beneath me vanished. I felt like I had lost everything.

My father was silent that day. Then he hugged me and said, “I will never leave you.” And he truly never did.

In my world, silence speaks volumes. The sound of my wheelchair, my slow fingers, and sometimes the time it takes me to speak. But my heart speaks clearly. I’ve learned to value the little things—the rustle of curtains, the warmth of sunlight, and my father’s gentle voice.

Every morning, I hear my father preparing breakfast for me. He brushes my teeth, combs my hair, dresses me. He lifts me lovingly, never showing fatigue. He holds me with so much love.

My world is filled with therapy sessions, doctor visits, and hopes. Every day, my father smiles and says, “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

After my mother left, life changed completely. All responsibilities fell on my father—my care, medical needs, household chores, emotional support—he had to handle everything alone.

In the early days, my father couldn’t sleep many nights. I used to cry and search for him, and he didn’t know how to comfort me. Then he would hold me, tell me stories, and slowly put me to sleep.

Along with caregiving, he had to manage his job. But due to my treatment and needs, he couldn’t go to the office. He found a way to work from home, but the income was less. Many times, he gave up his own needs to fulfill mine.

My father learned to cook, give medicines, and even assist with my physiotherapy. He never gave up. He always smiled, but I knew how much he was hurting inside.

Neighbors and relatives often said, “How will one man manage everything?” But my father never replied to them. He answered through the changes he brought to my life.

Life wasn’t easy after she left. But my father made it beautiful. He became everything for me. He learned therapy, attended every school meeting, learned to change my tubes, lift me without hurting me, and ease my pain.

He left his job and started working from home. Our house became my clinic, school, playground, and a home filled with love.

Every night, he told me stories. Every morning, he said, “You are strong.”

At six, I got my first wheelchair. At first, I hated it. I didn’t want to look different. I didn’t want to be the wheelchair kid.

But my father made it feel like my car. We put stickers on it. Named it “Thunder.” He would zoom me down the hallway making racecar sounds.

Slowly, I learned to move it on my own. A little push. A little roll. One meter. Two meters. With every wheel rotation, my world grew bigger.

At twelve, I told my father, “I want to walk.”

He was surprised, but smiled and said, “Then let’s try.”

We bought a walker—shiny silver with soft handles. The first time I held it, my legs trembled. I was scared. I wanted to quit. But my father came close and said, “Just take one step.”

That first step felt like climbing a mountain. But I took it. Then another. Then one more. My legs hurt. My hands trembled. But I didn’t stop.

Now I can walk with support. But I am walking.

Some days are heavy. Days I hate my body. When I feel broken. When I think maybe my mother was right. Maybe I am a burden.

But my father always reminds me, “You are not weak. You are enough. You fight every day. That’s not weakness—it’s strength.”

Slowly, I started believing in him.

In the beginning of my education, my father struggled a lot to get me admitted. No school wanted to take me. They were afraid after seeing my condition. But luckily, one school gave us a chance. My father promised, “If there is any problem, I’ll handle it.”

Now everything is running smoothly. My teachers are very supportive. They explain things patiently, help me, and never make me feel alone. I feel safe and happy there.

My home tutor also helps me a lot. When I had problems reading and writing, he taught me patiently. Slowly, I overcame those difficulties. Now I enjoy learning and expressing myself.

I dream of walking without a walker. Standing on my own feet. Publishing a book one day. Telling the world that children like me are not weak.

We are not broken. We are just made a little differently.

I want to help other CP children. I want to tell them that if someone leaves you, someone else will surely stand by you.

Today I use a walker. But every week, I walk a little more. My legs are learning. My heart already knows the way.

I believe in myself. I know one day I’ll walk on my own.

And when I do, it will not just be for me, but for every child who was ever called a burden.

Because we are not burdens.

We are walking miracles.

We are rising with every step.