We were just trying to grab lightbulbs. I turned my back for five seconds and suddenly my girls were squaring up like mini wrestlers in front of a guy in the hardware aisle.
Both of them, arms up, fists tight, puffed-out cheeks.
I rushed over, flustered, apologizing. “I’m so sorry, they’re just—”
But the man in the wheelchair was already laughing. Big, genuine belly laugh.
He flexed his own tattooed arms and said, “Oh, you’re trying to challenge me?”
The girls squealed with laughter. One of them shouted, “You’ve got robot legs!”
My stomach dropped. But he just grinned wider.
“They’re better than robot legs,” he said. “These help me go faster than your dad’s car.”
The girls were hooked.
He let them “arm wrestle” him right there between the shelves of drill bits and zip ties. Made goofy faces. Called them strong as superheroes.
Then my oldest asked, “Did someone hurt you?”
He didn’t flinch. Just nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “But now I help other people feel strong too.”
Turns out he was a veteran. Lost both legs in service. Volunteers now with adaptive sports.
Before we left, he fist-bumped both girls and whispered something to them I couldn’t hear.
