When he proposed, he said, “I know darkness has taken a lot from you. Let me spend my life giving something back.”
I said yes.
Marriage with Paul was gentle. He read novels aloud when I couldn’t sleep. He placed furniture in the same position so I’d never stumble. He kissed my forehead each morning before work.
We had two children: Emma, who inherited his dimples, and Noah, who inherited my stubbornness. I knew their faces only through touch—small noses, soft cheeks, eyelashes under my fingertips. I often wondered if they looked like me.
Paul never stopped studying ophthalmology. He specialized, published papers, traveled to conferences, trained under renowned surgeons. Sometimes I teased him that he loved eyeballs more than his own family.
But late at night, when he thought I was asleep, I heard him crying in his office.
I never understood why.
Then one winter evening, after nearly fifteen years together, he came home shaking with excitement.
“I think I found a way,” he said. “A reconstructive approach using tissue grafting and a newer neural interface. It’s risky—but possible.”
I laughed and cried at once.
“You mean… I could see?”
“Yes.”
He knelt in front of me and pressed his forehead to my hands.
“Our dream can come true.”
I should have noticed then that he said our dream, not yours.
The surgery was scheduled months later. Every test looked promising. Friends prayed. My children made cards with giant suns and rainbows.
The night before the operation, Paul barely slept. I touched his face in bed and found it wet.
“Are you crying?” I asked.
“I’m just scared,” he whispered.
“For me?”
“For everything.”
I didn’t understand.
The next morning, he was my surgeon. I trusted him more than anyone alive. As anesthesia blurred the room, I felt his lips on my forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Then darkness swallowed me again.
When I woke, my head was bandaged. Machines beeped nearby. My throat was dry. I heard footsteps, then Paul’s voice.
“It’s me.”
