I spent two decades imagining what my husband looked like. The day I finally saw his face was the day I realized our entire life together had been built on a lie.
I lost my sight when I was eight.
It started as a stupid playground joke that spun out of control.
I was on the swings in our old neighborhood park, pumping my legs as high as I could because I loved the feeling of flying. I remember laughing at something my neighbor’s son said.
We had grown up on the same street.
I lost my sight when I was eight.
“Bet you can’t go higher than that!” he teased.
“Watch me!” I shot back.
The next thing I felt was a sharp shove from behind. I lost my grip. My small hands slipped from the chains, and I flew backward instead of forward. There was a sickening crack when my head hit a jagged rock near the mulch border.
I don’t remember the ambulance ride.
“Watch me!”
I remember waking up in a hospital bed and hearing my mother crying.
I remember doctors whispering words like “optic nerve damage” and “severe trauma.”
There was one surgery. Then another.
But sadly, the doctors couldn’t save my vision.
The darkness swallowed everything.
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