“It’s normal to doubt. Philosophers question everything, and we must, too. Are there people you believe in?” “I believed in my husband. And in my baby girl.” “I wish she’d had the chance to know you, to love you.” “Me, too,” she sighed. We were quiet for a time. Finally, she asked, “What do you believe in?” “I believe in books. In friendship. In potatoes smothered in butter and dill.”
