But it was true, and it was simple.

For most of my life I had measured a home the way I measured everything else, by its scale and its cost and its capacity to impress.

The penthouse was, by every one of those measures, magnificent.

And it was the emptiest place I have ever lived, and I had not even noticed the emptiness until I stood in Rosalie’s small, warm, cluttered house and felt, for the first time in years, the specific fullness of a place where people actually loved one another.

A home, it turns out, is not measured in square footage or in views.