At twenty-three, I believed love meant choosing one person over the entire world.

At sixty-three, I knew better.

Love meant choosing someone without requiring either person to disappear.

My parents had wanted Genevieve the Carlisle daughter.

Owen, for a while, tried to become Owen the provider strong enough to compensate for everything I lost.

Both ideas were too small.

I needed to become Genevieve.

He needed to remain Owen.