The remaining two bays in the garage were a jumble of densely packed furniture, storage boxes, and assorted junk. “See all that?” Quinn said. “I lived in a studio apartment and that’s pretty much all I owned before I moved in with Wally.” She hit a button that raised both of the garage’s double doors. “When I moved in, he promised he’d make room for my things. I figured, no biggie. It’s not like we’re short of space. Guess I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did, because here we are, three years later, and my junk’s still sitting in the garage and the house is still his house. And you know what? I don’t even care anymore.” She shook her head, splashing some wine on the floor. “I gave up my job. My name. Why not give it all up?”

“That sucks,” Emily said. It was no small thing, giving up your own home to move in with someone. Then to have your possessions quarantined? At least Frank had never begrudged Emily her own space and, for the most part, kept his crap out of it.

“You know, people see the big house.” Quinn’s eyes brimmed with tears. “The fancy car. And they think, wow, she’s got everything.”

Emily felt a flash of guilt, because that was exactly what she had thought. She took a swallow of wine. “You must have been in love with him.”

Quinn chewed on her lower lip. “I suppose so. Kind of.” In a whisper, “But if I got a do-over?” Quinn gave a bitter laugh. “I was thirty-five, my biological clock is ticking, I wanted to be married in the worst way. Guess that’s what I got.” She turned her gaze toward the house. “I should never have married Wally, but I did. I have no illusions about the bargain I’ve made. Most days I get up and do my thing. It’s okay.”

Emily could have said the same thing about her own marriage. She and Frank let each other do their own thing. And her biological clock was set to run out.

“But this,” Quinn went on, gesturing to the piles of her belongings. “It’s so disrespectful, don’t you think? Makes me feel like a worthless piece of shit.”

“Quinn, you’re not your things.” The minute Emily said that, she realized it wasn’t true. To a very real extent, people could be defined by the things they kept, each one a choice, even if it was not a conscious one. Emily was her sock drawer, both before and after. Mr. Murphy was his decaying books and decorative hardware. Frank was his piano guts.