“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.”
Something was wrong instantly. His voice sounded hollow, almost broken.
“Did it fail?” I asked.
“No. It worked.”
Then silence.
He sat beside me, breathing unevenly.
“Before I remove the bandages, I need to tell you something.”
I smiled weakly. “Can it wait until I can see your dramatic face?”
“No.” His voice cracked. “Please… don’t hate me.”
My pulse raced.
“What are you talking about?”
“Everything isn’t the way you think.”
Hands trembling, he began unwrapping the bandages.
Light stabbed through my eyelids. I cried out and squeezed them shut. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Slowly, carefully, I opened them again.
Shapes appeared first. White walls. Blue curtains. Silver rails on the bed. A vase of flowers near the window.
Then a man standing in front of me.
Brown hair threaded with gray. Tired eyes. Scar near the chin. Hands shaking.
And suddenly, memory surged through me like lightning.
An older face, yes—but the same eyes. The same mouth. The same voice aged by time.
I gasped so hard my chest hurt.
