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.”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.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.At first, I thought it was temporary.I’d wave my hands in front of my face and wait to see them. I never did.Weeks turned into months, and eventually, I accepted that the damage was permanent.I hated the dark, depending on people, and hearing my classmates run past me in the hallways while I traced the lockers with my fingertips.But I refused to shut down. I forced myself to learn how to live in the darkness.I learned Braille. I memorized rooms by counting steps. I trained my ears to pick up the smallest shift in someone’s breathing.