The blind girl had never seen the world, but she felt its cruelty with every breath. She was born into a family where appearance was valued above all else. Her two sisters were admired; their eyes were called a “gift,” their smiles the “pride of the family.” But she was perceived as a mistake. As a burden. As a reminder that life contains not only the beautiful.
When she was five years old, her mother died—the only person who held her hand and told her that darkness does not make a person worse. After that, her father changed. He became cold and irritable, especially towards her.
He never called her by her name. To him, she was simply “that one.” He didn’t want to see her at the dinner table and hid her in her room every time guests arrived. He was certain: blindness was a curse.
When the blind girl turned twenty-one, her father made a decision that broke her life.
One morning, he walked into her small room. She was sitting on the bed, slowly running her fingers over the pages of an old book written in Braille.
“Tomorrow, you are getting married,” he said dryly.
She froze. The words hung in the air, making no sense. Married? To whom?
“To a beggar from the street,” her father continued. “You are blind, he is poor. A suitable match.”
It felt as though the ground had disappeared from beneath her feet. She wanted to say something, but she couldn’t. Her father had never asked for her opinion. She had no choice.
The next day, everything happened quickly. A small ceremony in the yard, a few indifferent witnesses, muffled snickers. She didn’t see the groom’s face, and no one bothered to describe him. Her father simply pushed her forward and ordered her to take the beggar’s hand.
People whispered, covering their mouths: “The blind girl and the beggar… What a pair.” Some smirked, others looked on with pity.
After the ceremony, her father shoved a small bag of clothes into her hands, pushed her toward the man again, and threw out his final words: “Now she is your wife and your problem. Live however you want.”
And he left, without even looking back. But what happened shortly after became a true shock to everyone.
From that day on, the blind girl lived in a tiny room near a mosque. There was no luxury, but it was quiet.
The beggar never raised his voice, always asked if she was comfortable, and every evening he described in detail how the day had been: what color the sky was, how the trees smelled, what kind of people had passed by.
Several months passed.
One day, the father accidentally overheard a conversation at the market. People were discussing a strange man who regularly gave large sums to the poor but lived like a simple beggar. They said he had refused his inheritance to marry not for calculation, but for conscience.
The father turned pale when he realized who they were talking about. That same evening, he went to their house. He was met not by a beggar, but by a confident man in expensive but modest clothing. Beside him stood the blind girl—calm, confident, with perfect posture.
She held her husband’s arm, and for the first time in her life, there was no fear on her face.
“I am not poor,” the man said calmly. “I just wanted a person beside me who sees with their heart. And I found her.”
The father tried to speak, but the blind girl beat him to it.
“You called me a curse,” she said quietly. “But blindness taught me to distinguish the true value of people.”
The father stood there, unable to utter a single word.