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

he built himself. He was five years older than me, his right leg injured in an accident when he was seventeen. Electronics and computers were his domain. He could revive a dying toaster. He greeted my mother with “ma’am” and me with “morning” like someone practicing courage.
Rumor had it he’d liked me for years. Rumor had it I was picky. I called it continue reading …