“You were always so brave,” she whispered. “Braver than me.”
“I’m not brave, Mom. I just didn’t have a choice.”
“That’s what brave is, baby.”
After that, it was just me.
I told myself blindness couldn’t stop me.
But there was one thing I never told anyone.
More than anything in the world, I dreamed of seeing again.
Not in a big way. I didn’t dream about the Grand Canyon or the ocean. I dreamed about small things. My own face in a mirror. What color my eyes had turned out to be, as a grown woman. The words on a menu. A sunset. My mother’s face, which I was already starting to forget.
Every year, I went to a specialist for a checkup. Most of the visits were routine. Same tests, same answers. No change. We’re sorry. Maybe someday.
But I still clung to hope.
