Dating him felt easy.
“I know this crosses a line.”
Nigel described the world to me without pity. He let me cook, even when I burned things, memorized how I took my coffee, and would place the mug exactly three inches from my right hand.
Two years later, when we got married, he was no longer my doctor.
I traced his face with my fingertips the night before the wedding.
“You have a strong jaw,” I said softly.
“Is that good?” he asked.
“I think so. You feel steady.”
He kissed my palm. “I am.”
He was no longer my doctor.
We welcomed two children, Ethan and Rose. I learned their faces through touch.
My husband thrived in his career. He specialized in complex optic nerve reconstruction and spent long nights in his home office. I would wake up at two a.m. and reach across the bed only to find it empty.
