Happy Place

by Emily Henry

There wasn’t a ton I could do to help, except cleaning. And I like how it’s so measurable, like you immediately see that what you’re doing is making a difference. Whenever I get anxious, I clean, and it relaxes me.”

“Are you planning to become a mathematician?” I ask. “No,” he says. “That’s good, because they’re all going to be put out of business once this calculator thing catches on.

“What was that?” “The pillow you threw at me,” I say, “perhaps you remember it.” “I know it’s a pillow,” he says. “I’m talking about the throw.”

I don’t think she’s ever totally understood why I find it easier to fulfill other people’s expectations than to set my own.

“What if I’m bad at it?” I ask. “Being a parent.” He sweeps my hair back from my neck. “You won’t be.” “You don’t know that,” I say. “I do,” he says. “How?” I say. “Because you’re good at loving,” he says. “And that’s all you have to do.”

“Love means constantly saying you’re sorry, and then doing better.”