Cambridge could have fallen off the map, for all I cared—Cambridge and advanced degrees and every novel ever written by Charles Dickens. From the moment I wrapped my arms around James’s neck at the end of that pier and whispered yes, my identity as an aspiring historian rusted away, replaced with my identity as his soon-to-be wife. I tossed my graduate school application into the trash and eagerly thrust myself into the whirlwind of wedding planning, preoccupied with letterpress fonts on invitations and shades of pink for our peony centerpieces. And when the wedding was but a sparkling, riverfront memory, I poured my energy into shopping for our first home. We eventually settled on the Perfect Place: a three-bed, two-bath home at the end of a cul-de-sac in a neighborhood of young families.

The routine of married life fell evenly into place, as straight and predictable as the rows of dogwood trees lining the streets of our new neighborhood. And as James began to settle onto the first rung of the corporate ladder, my parents—who owned farmland just east of Cincinnati—presented me with an enticing offer: a salaried job at the family farm, handling basic accounting and administrative tasks. It would be stable, secure. No unknowns.

I’d considered the decision over the course of a few days, thinking only briefly of the boxes still in our basement, packed away with the dozens of books I’d adored in school. Northanger Abbey. Rebecca. Mrs. Dalloway. What good had they done me? James had been right: burying myself in antiquated documents and tales of haunted manors hadn’t resulted in a single job offer. On the contrary, it had cost me tens of thousands of dollars in student loans. I began to resent the books that lay inside those boxes and felt sure my notion about studying at Cambridge had been the wild idea of a restless, unemployed college graduate.

Besides, with James’s secure job, the right thing to do—the mature thing to do—was to stay put in Cincinnati with my new husband and our new home.

I accepted the offer at the family farm, much to James’s delight. And Brontë and Dickens and everything else I’d adored for so many years remained in boxes, hidden in the far corner of our basement, unopened and eventually forgotten.