The six-year-old son of my housekeeper found me crying alone in my wheelchair and asked the one question every adult around me had been too afraid to ask.
Minutes later, I was desperate enough to offer him everything I owned if he could somehow save the broken man inside me, but his answer made my fortune feel completely worthless.
That morning, I sat beneath the pale sun behind my mansion, staring across acres of perfectly trimmed lawn I no longer cared about.
My name was Ethan Caldwell, and on paper, I was one of the wealthiest businessmen in Chicago.
Money had bought me companies, houses, cars, and influence. It could not make my legs move.
Doctors had already told me what I refused to accept. After months of specialists, therapy, and expensive consultations, they believed I might never walk again.
So I had started pushing everyone away. Employees feared my temper. Friends stopped visiting, and even the staff inside my mansion had learned to move quietly whenever I was nearby.
That morning, however, I finally cracked. I thought nobody could see me crying.
Then I heard small footsteps crossing the wet grass. My housekeeper, Rebecca Miller, was working nearby when her six-year-old son, Sammy, wandered toward me.
