I began crying.
"I thought I'd be happier."
Rachel smiled.
"You can be grateful for your sight and still find the adjustment difficult."
I looked up.
She continued.
"You don't have to be amazed every minute."
For some reason, those words brought enormous relief.
I didn't have to turn every sunrise into a miracle.
Sometimes, I was allowed to be tired.
Sometimes, I was allowed to miss the certainty of the world I'd learned to navigate without sight.
And sometimes, I was allowed to sit quietly and enjoy the color of my daughter's hair.
***
Iris was eight.
She had dark curls and brown eyes.
The first time I'd seen her, she'd stood beside my hospital bed looking frightened.
"Mommy?"
I remembered reaching toward her.
She took my hand.
"Can you really see me?"
I nodded through tears.
She leaned forward.
"Then what color are my eyes?"
I laughed and cried.
