I walk the hall again and trek upstairs: fifty-five steps. From landing to nursery: thirty-five. It is amazing how important math has become in daily life. How angles and steps can mean the difference between a smooth transition from room to room or a smashed nose or stubbed toe. While all visually impaired people have their blindisms—some people rock back and forth, some people listen with their mouths open, intent on absorbing every word—mine is counting steps. I don’t need to count steps. I am oriented to our home and neighborhood and am blessed with a photographic memory, but it is my tic.

I crack the door and ease inside. My mother helped me decorate. She picked the Pinterest-worthy wallpaper. The elephant decals. The Crate and Kids dresser and changing table. I walk toward the large crib and stare into it.

The room is black. The shape of my son seizes my heart. His little body plumps beneath his onesie—a foggy halo—but a gaping hole appears where his head should be. I picture his exquisite gray eyes, like twin marbles bobbing beneath water. Where are they? My breathing intensifies. I place my hand gently on his belly. He jerks awake in the inky darkness.

There. There’s my baby.

I slap a hand to my heart. The air escapes in an audible whoosh. The ugly black hole recedes as his face hardens in my mind. My hands traverse his body—the creased palms, the wiggly legs, the warm belly. It takes a moment for him to register in my brain first, then spring to life in front of me. He is here. He is real. I step back.

My eyes are playing tricks again.

It’s an unwelcome side effect of Stargardt disease—besides losing my central vision, I also see shapes shift in the dark with what little sight I retain.

I scoop his pliable body out of the crib and find the rocking chair. He hunts for my breast. His tiny fist works against my chest as he drinks. I cast a map of his face in my mind and caress every feature. The fuzzy forehead. His thick lashes and squishy nose. His tiny scoop of a chin. Love fills my hand, my body, this chair, my world. I remember when he was placed into my arms at the hospital, I’d memorized every part of him. The wrinkled hands and impossibly compact feet. The down-turned lips. His crazy fingernails, which were so long, I had to cover his hands with socks to keep him from scratching himself. A surge of grief flattens me. Chris was supposed to be here. Chris was supposed to become a father. He and I spent so much time discussing our future, making plans for time we’d never have instead of just enjoying the moment.

What a waste.