My uncle raised me after my parents died. After his funeral,

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 My uncle raised me after my parents died. After his funeral,


 I received a letter in his handwriting: "If you're reading this—I'm dead. But you need to know the truth."


I'm 26F, and I haven't been able to walk since I was 4.


That's when the crash happened. My parents died that night. I survived… but my body was never the same.


The state began discussing foster care, but my uncle stepped in and put a stop to it.


"I'm taking her," he said. "I'm not handing her to strangers. She's my niece."


Ray didn't seem like the gentle type, but to me, he was the safest person in the world.


He tried to give me everything he could.


He learned to do my makeup from videos so that I could feel pretty.


He took me to parks and fairs in my wheelchair, bought me sweet treats, and always found ways to make my world feel a little bigger.


When I cried because I'd never dance or just stand in a crowd, he'd sit on my bed, jaw tight.


"You're not less. You hear me? You're not less."


Then he got sick.


At first, it was small things like forgetting his keys or needing to pause on the stairs to catch his breath.


Then came the doctors talking quietly in the hallways, the paperwork, and finally hospice care.


And then, just like that, he was gone.


After the funeral, our neighbor came in with red eyes and shaking hands.


"Ray asked me to give you this," she whispered. "And to tell you… he's sorry."


She placed an envelope in my lap. My name was written on it in his rough handwriting.


My hands shook as I opened it, expecting some comfort or a goodbye.


Instead, the first line made my stomach drop:


"Hannah, I've been lying to you your whole life. I can't stay silent anymore. I've carried this secret for over 20 years." ⬇️⬇️⬇️

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