Later in life, I agreed to marry a man with disability — there was no love between us

my youth slip away in quiet, almost imperceptible increments. What remained were bruised hopes, quiet disappointments, and a growing question: was love truly meant for me, or had I simply been unlucky in its pursuit?

Whenever a relationship ended, my mother would give me that familiar, worried look—half patience, half exasperation. “Sarah,” she would continue reading …