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

me in the eye.
“Sarah,” my mother said, pressing a cup of tea into my hands, “you don’t have to chase fireworks all the time. James Parker is a good man. And what about him with a limp? A good heart is stronger than two strong legs.”
James lived across the street in Burlington, Vermont—a white porch, a small American flag hanging from a pole, a ramp continue reading …