Will you be bringing a date to your friends’ dinner?” “Nope,” says the biographer, steeling herself for his next sentence, her face stiff with sadness that he can’t help himself. “About time you found someone, don’t you think?” “I’m fine, Dad.” “Well, I worry, kiddo. Don’t like the idea of you being all alone.” She could trot out the usual list (“I’ve got friends, neighbors, colleagues, people from meditation group”), but her okayness with being by herself—ordinary, unheroic okayness—does not need to justify itself to her father. The feeling is hers. She can simply feel okay and not explain
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