John had occasionally wondered how different his life would have been if he'd been an only child. It wasn't some perverse desire to have his sisters out of the picture. It was natural wonder and curiosity. He didn't now precisely what it was to be an only child because he'd never been one. He was the youngest of three, and even when the other two left the house and left California entirely, they were still part of the original family unit.
He didn't find the statement offensive at all. He rather agreed with it. Hearing people took their ability to hear for granted, picking and choosing what they wanted to hear and not hear, at times. John didn't consider his deafness a handicap, though it was definitely a challenge that presented itself daily. He couldn't accidentally overhear something, couldn't pick up on hushed whispers in a crowd, couldn't catch a tidbit of conversation here and there, and didn't always realise someone was trying to talk to him if he didn't happen to be looking at them. Yet he listened, and he heard far more than words could ever convey, because his hearing loss would be a debilitating handicap if he didn't.
He didn't resent hearing people because of their ability to hear. He had, at times, wondered why him, what had he done to deserve this flaw, but he didn't even do that so much anymore. He embraced his challenges, and he strived to over come his hearing loss as much as he possibly could. And, admittedly, it did piss him off when hearing people took their hearing for granted. Why shouldn't it? Especially when two hearing people talked among themselves about him, as if he wasn't right there in front of them, the way his sisters used to do.
"You are absolutely right about that," he said. "I've been guilty myself, of pretending I didn't know what someone was saying to me because I didn't like what they said."