Whenever a relationship ended, my mother would give me that familiar, worried look—half patience, half exasperation. “Sarah,” she would say softly, “maybe it’s time to stop chasing perfection. James next door is a good man. He may limp, but he has a good heart. Sometimes the right person isn’t flashy or dramatic—they’re steady, and that’s worth more than perfection.”
James Parker was exactly that man. He lived across the street from me in a modest, slightly worn wooden house on the outskirts of Burlington, Vermont. He was five years older than I was and had a permanent limp from a car accident at seventeen. James lived with his elderly mother and worked as an electronics and computer repairman, someone who could revive anything electric or mechanical as if by magic. For years, neighbors whispered that he had taken an interest in me. Whether it was true or mere speculation, James never spoke of it—except for his quiet, polite greetings each morning when our paths crossed.
