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I will never forget the absolute humiliation plastered across my mother’s face on my wedding day. Instead of looking joyful or proud, she looked as though she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. The sole reason for her shame was the man standing beside me at the altar. My husband, Jordan, was born with achondroplasia. He has dwarfism. Because of this, I had once overheard my parents refer to him as a genetic stain on our family lineage.
When I walked down the aisle, I mistakenly thought their visible disgust would be the most painful part of the day. I was completely wrong. During the reception, my father tapped on the microphone with a glass in his hand, chuckling to himself. He leaned into the microphone and announced to the entire room, to the couple, may their children be able to reach the dinner table. A few guests let out nervous, uneasy chuckles. The heat rushed to my face. I wanted nothing more than to hide under the nearest table.
Jordan simply reached over, took my hand, and whispered for me to let it go. I asked him how I could possibly ignore such cruelty when it was coming from my own father. He looked at me with those steady, calm eyes and explained that life is significantly easier when you release the need to fight every ugly remark. I hated how stoic he could be, but I knew what he was not saying out loud. He was used to it. He had heard worse his entire life. To him, this was just another drop in an ocean of mockery.
Watching the people who raised me treat the man I loved with such casual malice shattered my heart. It made no difference to them that Jordan was a brilliant, highly successful architect, or that he treated me with a level of respect and devotion I had never known. The cruelty did not stop at the wedding. Over the years, they found endless ways to belittle him.