The Secret Grief of the Life We Imagined (opens in new tab)

No one tells you that adulthood involves mourning people who never existed. Not lovers. Not parents. Not children. Not friends. Versions of yourself. The woman who thought she would write the novel. The man who imagined he would be more patient. The parent who assumed family dinners would be warm and uninterrupted instead of featuring negotiations over vegetables and someone crying because the pasta touched the peas. The ambitious twenty-five-year-old who envisioned becoming decisive, sophist...