Wanting to spend holidays with Andrew, then being persuaded that his apartment was too small.

Wanting a child, then feeling guilty each time another fertility appointment interfered with a company event.

None of those decisions, taken individually, seemed enormous.

Together they formed the shape of a life I barely recognized.

One afternoon, I told Elise about my grandmother’s robe.

I had put it in a sealed garment bag, afraid that washing it would erase something important or preserve something terrible.

“What does the robe mean to you now?” she asked.