Fourteen months later, I lost Mom too.
For a long time afterward, I missed the soundless conversations that had filled our kitchen.
Then I met Ben.
He was a high school science teacher with terrible jokes and a habit of laughing at them before anyone else did.
We met at a teachers’ conference when he accidentally spilled coffee on my art portfolio.
He offered to replace it.
A year later, he asked me to marry him.
When I told him about my parents, he listened with genuine interest.
Then he mentioned that his grandmother, Evelyn, was also deaf.
“She lost her hearing as a child,” he explained.
“Mom and my sisters sign with her.
I never really learned.”
He looked embarrassed about that.
Then he brightened.
“You and Grandma are going to get along wonderfully.
You should surprise everybody.”
I loved the idea.
I imagined introducing myself to Evelyn in sign language and seeing her face light up.
But at that first dinner, before I’d even reached her wheelchair, Patricia began making those remarks about my dress.
Ben’s family lived in a beautiful white colonial house with a long driveway.
His father, Richard, was a quiet orthodontist.
Patricia seemed involved in every community committee imaginable.
Whitney and Paige both worked in real estate.
They were polished, accomplished people.
I wanted them to like me.
And perhaps that’s why I didn’t correct them immediately.
I told myself Patricia might simply be worried about her son’s marriage.
Maybe she’d had a difficult experience with someone taking advantage of him.
Maybe she’d realize I wasn’t interested in his money.
So I waited.
That evening, driving home, Ben asked whether I’d surprised everyone with my signing.
“Not yet,” I answered.
“I’m waiting for the right moment.”
He squeezed my hand.
He didn’t know what I’d witnessed.
One dinner became another.
Then another.
For almost a year, we visited his family every other Sunday.