““He's such a good man," my mother said. "How I wish I loved him." "He's certainly crazy about you," I said, trying to make carefully chosen words sound casual. "I know," she admitted. "It's horrible." "It's horrible that someone loves you?" "Yes," she said, looking off somewhere. "I want...my own true love." Her own true love. The outrageous simplicity, modesty, and arrogance of it took my breath away. It seemed to me, then and now, a wish that everyone had a right to, but that only the very foolish or the terminally naive trouble themselves over.””