Mom is the smartest person I know. No, I'm not just saying that; she's literally a genius. I think she graduated from MIT or something at nineteen. I mean, she's probably up there with Einstein or da Vinci, but that doesn't change the fact that she's my mom and she can't take me seriously sometimes. Plus works faster than her mouth.

"Look, I know you're mad…" she began, but I cut her off.

"I'm not mad, just really, really confused." It wasn't a lie, really. Maybe I was a little mad that I found out this way, but I mostly wanted information.

"We were going to tell you when you turned thirteen…?" Mom suggested, but trailed off.

"Thirteen?"

"Well, it was ten before that, but we didn't want to mess up your birthday and then there was the whole thing with the metahumans and then the accident happened…" she rambled, doing that thing where she fidgets her fingers. I didn't even realize that I was doing it, too. "Look. I was hoping your father AND I would tell you."

"Right. When you're on your death bed?" I didn't mean to let that slip; it just kind of happened. I do that sometimes, I say things I don't really mean to say and I regret it right away.

Mom's eyes narrowed. "Don't sass me, young man." She poked my glasses onto my face, which had been hanging off my nose before, and gave me a long, thoughtful look. I wasn't sure whether to stare back or look away for those awkward few seconds, until, finally, she sighed. "We were just… afraid."

"Of what? I thought heroes weren't supposed to be afraid of anything."

"Well, that's a myth. They're afraid of a lot of things." Mom held my chin with her forefinger, and tipped my head up so she could look into my eyes. "Like the ones they love dying because of their own actions. No, it's not fair; trust me, I know better than anyone."

Suddenly, as Mom kissed my forehead, I felt really bad, and my ears got hot. Maybe I should have just waited, and kept my nose out of my parents' business. "We'll talk about this in the morning, if… when your dad gets home." Checking her watch again, she walked out and back to the computer room, where she would probably spend the rest of the night.

That's when I realized, she was a hero too. And she was just as afraid as any of them, out there in their masks and hoods. Afraid of the ones they love dying because of their own actions…

She was talking about me.

Normally, I hate pity. I mean, she rarely shows it anymore, now that I can at least get around by myself in a wheelchair. But like I said before: she is my mom, and though she's a super technical genius, her mom does show sometimes.

But that's not what bothers me.

Auntie Laurel never found the guy who took my legs. He hit us and ran. We just assumed it was a drunk driver, but maybe he didn't run because he felt guilty… maybe it wasn't an accident. Maybe he was after the Green Arrow.