“Certainly not. My next question is: Are you a person of integrity? Do you believe in doing what is just and necessary, no matter the cost?”

“Yes. Unless I know in my deepest heart that being ruthlessly honest will only hurt the other person and that their new haircut will eventually grow out.”

“Finally: do you love my grandson?”

“What?”

“You heard me. My late husband Richard loved me deeply, and this provided an essential balance to every challenge. If a human being is loved, they have strength. If Edgar isn’t loved, on his own merits, I fear for him. And should you only pretend love, from lesser motives, I will see you not only removed but demolished. Edgar has undergone more than his portion of tragedy, and I will not permit another heartbeat of sorrow. So I ask: do you love him?”

I hadn’t let myself get anywhere near this question. Edgar and I had been flung together and were making our way. I’d made awful mistakes. Love under any circumstances is the greatest risk, the most highwire undertaking, and I’d fooled myself in the past. I wanted to be in love, this yearning defined me, but I’d spent far too long, my entire life, arguing myself out of it. I wasn’t worthy, I wasn’t anyone’s type, my trapezius muscles were nonexistent, I drooled when I slept, I still hadn’t found the right pair of jeans, I was a minefield of quirks and obsessions and excuses.

The queen was waiting. My mom would tell me, “Of course you’re worthy of love, even if the sideburns were a mistake we all lived through, because the left side never really kept up. Haven’t I taught you that everyone deserves to be loved, except serial killers, people who eat smelly food on the subway, and anyone who hits a child, even a child who keeps kicking the airplane seat in front of him? But you can’t lie to Queen Catherine, because she’s been around the block, and she’ll know. She’s lost her daughter, her son-in-law and her husband, and she hasn’t shattered, at least not in public. She’s tough, and her grandsons are all she has. So do this: picture Edgar’s face. Then imagine you’ll never get to see that face ever again. You’ll know.”

I did this. I wasn’t sure if I believed in love at first sight, or even after only a few weeks; it’s so unlikely, the equivalent of learning another language from a single conversation, or memorizing a library at a glance. But—Edgar’s face. Smiling.