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.
