to force herself to love any of them. But she couldn’t. Love was the only thing she cared about and believed in. In our correspondence, she once wrote, “Love Is All,” capitalizing each word to underscore its importance. From her perspective, there had always been money somewhere, and when suddenly it wasn’t there, she was able to make it, or find it, or borrow it, or sell her apartment for a profit. Money bought beautiful things, and those beautiful things made her feel safe, secure, clear . . . until they didn’t and were relegated to the storage vault.
