My Husband Was Deaf For Two Years. Then One Night In The Kitchen, He Spoke To Me In Perfect English. How Do I Ever Trust Him Again?
The Crack in the Ice
We got married three months later in a small ceremony at a chapel in Napa Valley. It was beautiful, intimate, just our immediate families and closest friends. The ceremony was conducted with a sign language interpreter, and when we exchanged vows, I signed mine with tears streaming down my face.
I’d found my person, my partner. A man who saw me for who I truly was, who valued patience and kindness over small talk and superficial charm. A man who communicated with me in the most intentional way possible, every word written or signed with purpose, with thought.
Our wedding night, I expected him to speak. Isn’t that what happens in stories? The curse is broken, the spell is lifted? But Richard remained silent. He communicated with his hands, both in sign language and in other ways I won’t describe, and I fell asleep in our hotel room feeling cherished and complete.
We moved into a house in Palo Alto, a real house with a backyard and a guest room and an office where I could spread out my blueprints. Richard’s software company was doing well, very well. He was talking—or rather, his business partners were talking—about going public within a year.
I cut back my hours at the architecture firm. Dorothy suggested it, and Richard agreed enthusiastically in his silent way.
“You’ll want to be home more once the babies come,”
Dorothy said over Sunday dinner, patting my hand.
I got pregnant four months after the wedding. We were trying, or rather we weren’t preventing it, and when the two pink lines appeared on the test, I ran to find Richard in his home office. I was crying, laughing, trying to sign and fumbling it, finally just showing him the test.
His face lit up. He pulled me into his lap, kissed me, held me so tight I could barely breathe. Then he pulled back and signed slowly and clearly,
“You’ll be an amazing mother.”
The pregnancy was harder than I’d expected: morning sickness that lasted all day, exhaustion that made it difficult to work. At five months, I quit the architecture firm. It was just too much—the commute, the long hours, the physical demands of site visits. Richard was supportive, of course. He made more than enough money for both of us.
Dorothy was thrilled.
“Now you can focus on what really matters,”
she said, helping me fold tiny onesies in what would become the nursery.
“Being a wife and mother. That’s a woman’s true calling.”
I was folding a yellow onesie with ducks on it, feeling the baby kick inside me, when something occurred to me.
“Dorothy, did you work after you had Richard?”
“Oh, of course not. Richard’s father wouldn’t have allowed it. A man needs to know his wife is taking care of the home.”
“Richard’s father” was how she always referred to her ex-husband. They divorced when Richard was in college, a scandal Dorothy rarely discussed, but she mentioned him that day and something about her tone made me uncomfortable.
“Well, Richard and I discussed it and we both agreed this was best,”
I said firmly, even though we hadn’t really discussed it. We’d written about it, signed about it, but was that the same as a real conversation? Could you have a real conversation in sign language with someone you’d only known for a year?
The Truth Comes Out
Six months pregnant, exhausted and hormonal, I was making dinner—grilled chicken and vegetables, Richard’s favorite—when he walked into the kitchen. I had just finished writing him a note asking if he wanted white or red wine with dinner, even though I couldn’t drink. I was trying to maintain normalcy, trying to be a good wife.
He came up behind me, so close I could feel his warmth. I held up the note over my shoulder and he said,
“Margaret, I need to tell you something.”
The note fell from my fingers. Time seemed to stop. I turned slowly, my pregnant belly bumping against the counter. Richard was standing there looking at me with those brown eyes, his mouth moving, sounds coming out. Real sounds. Real words.
“I’m not deaf,”
he said.
“I never was.”
I couldn’t process it. Couldn’t make the words make sense. My deaf husband was speaking. My deaf husband just told me he wasn’t deaf. My deaf husband…
“I can hear you perfectly,”
he continued, his voice deep, smooth, educated. A voice that had been there all along, hidden.
“I’ve been able to hear everything this whole time.”
My legs went weak. I grabbed the counter for support. The baby kicked hard, as if reacting to my sudden spike in heart rate.
“What?”
I whispered, or thought I whispered. I wasn’t sure any sound came out.
“Let me explain.”
“What?”
Louder now. Definitely louder.
“What did you just say?”
Richard held up his hands, palms out, a gesture that suddenly seemed ominous instead of gentle.
“Please, let me explain. There’s a reason.”
“You’re not deaf?”
It wasn’t a question; I was stating a fact, trying to make it real in my mind.
“You were never deaf?”
“No, I wasn’t. The motorcycle accident never happened. Well, I did have a motorcycle accident when I was 19, but I was fine. Just some road rash, nothing serious.”
I felt like I was watching this conversation from outside my body. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening.
“You’ve been lying to me for almost two years?”
“It wasn’t lying exactly. It was more like a test.”
“A test?”
The word hung in the air between us like poison gas.
“A test,”
I repeated. My voice sounded strange, distant.
“My mother’s idea, actually. After Julia left me, my ex-girlfriend. I was devastated. I thought we were going to get married and then she just left. Said I was too focused on work, not romantic enough, not exciting enough. My mother said I needed to find someone who would love me for who I really was, not for my money or my status. Someone patient, someone kind. Someone who would stick around even when things were difficult.”
He was talking faster now, the words tumbling out like he’d been storing them up for months—which, I realized with growing horror, he had been.
“So we came up with this plan. I’d pretend to be deaf. Any woman who couldn’t handle that, who couldn’t learn sign language, who got frustrated with the communication barrier, she wasn’t right for me. But someone who did stick around, who learned my language, who was patient and understanding… that was someone special.”
“And you found her,”
I said numbly.
“You found your special someone. How wonderful for you, Margaret.”
