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298 pages, Paperback
First published August 27, 2013














The kindest thing you can do for someone you love is to never tell them how much they have broken your heart.
Happiness is overrated. Maybe we are not built for it. Maybe the best we can hope for is to be... Content. To be resigned. To muddle through life and be grateful for the good, and work through the bad. Maybe that is what I will have for the rest of my life, this good life to which I am resigned, to which I am grateful.
"Everyday," I tell him, "you will miss me either a little less or a little more. Until one day you will wake up and realize, you don't miss me at all, or you will find yourself incapable of living without me."
"And then what," Will says. "Then what?"
"Then," I say just before I disconnect, "come and find me."
***Insert the devastating entirety of Chapter 36 here.***
"He was my ocean, and I didn't know if I would drown until I learned how well I could swim."
Kat stands quietly in front of the triple mirror, studying her reflection and smoothing the fabric of a simple satin gown in a vintage style. But when I ask her if she wants to buy it, she just shakes her head.
"No, Mom," she says. "I'm not sure about it."
"Then you shouldn't get it."
Kat, face solemn, nods. She smooths her hands down the front again, then gives me a small smile. "It's pretty, right?"
"It's beautiful, honey. Very you." I haven't checked the tag on this one, but what is money for if not to spend? "But you shouldn't settle. Not when it should be something so special. You should make sure it's what you really, really want. And even then," I say with a small laugh, "you'll probably look back on it in twenty years and wonder what on earth you were thinking."
She turns to me. "Do you?"
I think of my own wedding dress. I'd wanted to wear my grandmother's 1940s suit with its padded shoulders and peplum, the sleek skirt. My mother had talked me into a mermaid-style dress, a monstrosity of lace and satin that had never fit quite right no matter how many times we'd had it altered. I haven't looked at my wedding pictures for a long time.
"Yes. I'd have picked something different. So you should make sure," I say, looking across the room to where her sister is now twirling in front of the mirror in a fourth choice, "to pick something you really really love, at least right now, because that way even when you look back and can't believe you picked it, you'll remember how much you loved it when you did."
I don't remember the first day I resented this. I don't remember wondering why all the years I'd made the effort were not reciprocated. Nothing jumped up and bit me or slammed like a door in my face. That's not how it happens. What happens is you get married, you raise your kids, they go off to school, and you look at your spouse and wonder what on earth you're supposed to do with each other now, without all the distractions of having a family to obscure the fact that you have no idea not only who the other is, but who you are yourself.
...no matter what happens, I hurt. No matter what I do, there is casualty.
“My daughters are long beyond needing that sort of care, and I don’t miss it.”
“My husband still travels, still works long hours, still spends his leisure time in pursuits that have nothing to do with me. And what have I done?”
“Love, when it goes, can sometimes burn to ash. And sometimes it can leave nothing.”
“He was my ocean, and I didn’t know if I would drown until I learned how well I could swim.”

The well of my heart is a very deep place,
and at the bottom, it's dark.
He was my ocean, and I didn't know if I would drown until I learned how well I could swim.
