A few years ago, my friend Ray and I started an online store that became very successful.
Adaptive gear — grips, reachers, kitchen tools, the things I’d spent six years jury-rigging out of duct tape and spite because nobody sold them at a price a single father could pay.
Ray did the website.
I did the products.
Last year we shipped to forty-one countries.
It finally felt like everything had fallen into place.
Until someone knocked on my door last night.
Amelia ran to answer it.
I was right behind her.
Standing there was Katherine.
She was wearing what could only be described as rags.
