I was, in other words, right.

And here was a woman who had been right for nineteen years, righter than I would ever be, holding the receipt for exactly what being right buys you, and it was the loneliest thing I had ever seen.

Because that is the trap nobody warns you about: being right is real, and it feels like the point, and it is worth, in the end, almost nothing.

It will not sit across a table from you.