After college, Noah got a job as a software developer.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it was stable.
A year later, on a rainy evening that reminded him of our orphanage days, he rolled his wheelchair into the kitchen where I was cooking pasta.
He held out a small ring.
“Lena,” he said, nervous but determined, “we’ve been building our life together since we were kids. Will you marry me and keep building it with me forever?”
I didn’t hesitate.
