“You walk better than most people I know.”
An insult conveniently wrapped in a compliment. A stinging backhand. The intent was clear: after several years, he finally brandished new ankle-foot orthotics, or AFOs, and given his previous struggles, the comment came from a place of love, of pride.
But it was, in fact, a slight. A slight against his intelligence, for he knew otherwise. That his walking was worse than the average person. That the culmination of aging and the progression of his symptoms would cripple him in various ways, both obvious and subtle. For the sake of being polite, he grit his teeth and smiled.