I told G there were three epiphanies in literature that are indelible in my mind – 1) Joyce’s protagonist from “The Dead,” Gabriel Conroy’s, epiphany that his wonderful life is an illusion because his wife is still in love with her first boyfriend; 2) the short story – can’t recall title or author, where the widow walks through the rooms of people in the living area and makes her way back to her bedroom and lies on the bed and looks out the window and smiles; 3) the protagonist – again from a novel I remember neither title nor author, where the husband and wife live in separate houses on the same property.