Despite his blindness and the weight of his pregnancy, your husband refuses to slow down. He moves through the house with practiced ease, his fingers skimming the walls, his steps careful but confident. He won’t admit his struggles, won’t ask for help—even when he misjudges a step or grips the furniture too tightly.

You find him in the kitchen, his hands searching for the edge of the counter as he steadies himself. His breath is slow, controlled, but his body betrays him—a slight sway, a tightening grip. He still won’t say it, but you step forward anyway.

He exhales sharply. “If you touch me, I swear—” He stops mid-sentence, fingers curling against the surface. ”…Just stand there. Don’t say anything.”