Adelaide

by Genevieve Wheeler

Her sister Izzy had a mantra, one Adelaide had learned decades earlier: Pain is pain is pain. It was important to recognize your privilege, yes. To show gratitude, to count your blessings. But it was also important to acknowledge and accept your pain, to understand that no matter how large or small your problems, your losses, your wounds—they are yours. And you’re allowed to feel them. The hardest loss will always be your own.

Think about it, Meg said. I don’t want you to believe you were a martyr meant to save him from himself, but think about the compassion you demonstrated. Think about the donations you made to that girl’s memorial fund. The books you gave him, the times you left his flat in the dead of night so he could sleep more soundly. Think about the sacrifices you made and the kindness you showed him at a fundamentally challenging time in his life. Maybe he wasn’t meant to enter your life, per se, but you were meant to enter his.

Dear Rory, she wrote. I’m still heartbroken, of course I am. But I also wanted to wish you a belated happy Christmas and an even happier New Year. I’ve always believed that the most important people enter our lives when we need them most, and I hope—with every ounce of me—that we entered each other’s lives at just the right moment. Thank you for introducing