" There had been a time, and it lasted years, when all Eleanor supposed she needed was to love someone deeply, someone who loved her back, and she had this now. And she had her family - the thing she'd wanted above all else. But there was also, now, a place in her where something like a small, hard nut of resentment resided. She could almost feel it there sometimes - watching the cool ease of the way Cam mounted his bicycle and headed out on a ride some Saturday morning, with the dishes from the waffles he'd made - he was a joyous but messy cook - still stacked high in the sink.

"When do I get to take a Saturday morning off to go on an adventure?" she asked, out in the driveway as he pumped up the tires.

"Be honest with yourself, El," he said to her. "Do you actually see yourself getting on a mountain bike on a Saturday morning?"

He had nailed it, of course. So much time had passed in which she had no time that she no longer knew what she'd do with herself if she had any. "

― Joyce Maynard , Count the Ways