Losing my vision changed how I moved through life, but it also changed how I placed my trust. Looking back, I understand that the darkest part of those years had very little to do with what I could or could not see.

Warm afternoon sunlight rested against the window while I sat with both hands around a mug of tea I could barely make out. Eleven years of marriage had shaped my daily life down to its smallest routines.

I recognized my home through sound. The refrigerator’s hum, the hallway clock’s steady ticking, and the low growl of Brian’s car pulling into the driveway every evening.

I was thirty-five and had not clearly seen my own face in almost ten years.

When Brian and I married, my eyesight had been completely normal. A year later, a rare eye disease appeared and slowly began taking my vision.

First, distant signs became blurry. Then faces lost their detail. Eventually, everything faded into pale shapes and shadows.

By the fourth year, I used a white cane.

By the sixth, I stopped pretending I could manage alone because moving through unfamiliar places had become too difficult.

Within a few more years, nearly all my sight was gone.

I could detect little more than light and large outlines.

Brian took responsibility for everything. He drove me, read the mail, and managed any task requiring clear vision.

“Don’t worry about the garage, honey,” my husband told me once, steering me back toward the kitchen. “I’ll sort it out now that you’ve got your footing.”

The garage had been neglected as it filled with various machines and supplies supposedly meant to help with my condition.

Brian also said he stored his tools, boxes, and car equipment there.

“I could at least help you organize it,” I offered.

“Gina, please. There’s nothing in there for you. Let me take care of it. I’ll grab whatever you need.”

I remembered the tension that entered his voice whenever I mentioned that room.

I told myself it was protectiveness.

That was what love looked like, I believed.

That was what devotion sounded like.

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