How I Became a Heartbreaker

My disability is something we rarely address directly. He gets impatient with my slow gait and often walks ahead of me. But he’ll also kiss the fingers on my right hand, the one weak-ened by cerebral palsy, and tell me, “I love this hand because it would never hurt anybody.”

Like most disabled children, I was given the message that I should be grateful to anyone who accepts me. But 
as Richard’s wife I’m not just acceptable in the able-bodied world, I’m a success story. In this society, in which finding a husband is something to aspire to and beauty is treated as an accomplishment, I’ve made it.

Accompanied by my handsome, athletic husband, I’ve earned my place in something like a higher class. I don’t live in the ghetto of the damaged. He’s beautiful. Maybe, by association, I am too.

Our marriage is not an easy one. Our disparate interests pull us in different directions. In some ways, I don’t mind this. I like that a snowboarding trip for Richard means I have a free weekend to spend with Hope and other women friends. It also gives me time to write. But Richard is hot-tempered and hard to please. We stay married for 10 years, during which time we have a son, but we finally separate when Ethan is three. A year later, we divorce. I expect to be sadder than I am. Mostly what I feel is relief that I no longer have to work so hard to keep Richard happy.

One night after Ethan is in bed, I take a long bath and let my mind wander toward the idea of dating. No more 
handsome men, I caution myself. I 
calculate that the oldest man I went with in my twenties was 13 years my senior.
That means that at 37, if I keep to the 
same math, I can date someone who’s 50. I’m startled by how old that sounds. It occurs to me that I never dated a man with a disability. I find the possibility intriguing.