It left my face, my neck, and my back covered in scars so deep that people stopped seeing me as a woman and started looking at me like a tragedy.
After that, I disappeared.
From mirrors. From crowds. From love.
People never looked at me without pity in their eyes or discomfort on their faces, and even kindness sometimes felt like another form of distance I could not cross. Others stared too long before looking away too quickly, and every reaction taught me the same quiet lesson about how the world treats pain.
So I built a quiet life, a small life, a hidden life where I could breathe without being watched.
Then I met Caleb Foster.
He was a blind music teacher with the calmest voice I had ever heard, and nothing about his presence made me feel like something was wrong with me. He listened carefully, laughed easily, remembered everything, and held my hand like it mattered.
For the first time in years, I felt wanted instead of tolerated or examined.
We dated for a year, and when he asked me to marry him, people said exactly what I expected them to say about my choice.
“You only married him because he can’t see how ugly you are,” one woman whispered loudly enough for me to hear.