I feared that my childhood had ruined me for romance.

My mother raised me alone, just the two of us, in five states and nine different houses. Sometimes we were broke, but we always had fun. She made every day beautiful. We ate pancakes for dinner, grew watermelon in the garden, picked raspberries.

I had always imagined myself married, but how could marriage ever compare to the enchantment of my childhood?

We had dogs, cats, ferrets. Wild animals showed up like messengers from fairy tales: a black snake by the river, dragonflies skimming the pond. When we lived in Florida, a baby manatee once brushed our bodies in the bay. When we lived in Maryland, my mother took care of injured birds of prey, one-eyed owls and hawks with broken wings.

We were always telling stories. Remember when? And then you said! And then I said! We laughed all the time.