She was his harshest critic. Years after other reviewers stopped finding flaws in his novels and started listing his accomplishments, she went on. If he wrote something from the heart, she called it sentimental. If he tried something witty, she called it elitist. When he simplified, she dismissed it as pedestrian. When he went experimental, she said it was inaccessible. He ignored the praise. Her words were the ones he kept, and every year, he tried harder.

She looked forward to his novels. Every one was better than the last. After ten years, she stopped reviewing anything else, and spent months composing her critiques. She never stopped criticizing.

She even yawned during the wedding ceremony.

At her funeral, he said, “Now, I can finally tell you, in words you would have called sappy or cliche, how much you meant to me.”

He finished speaking. Her brother in the front row took out a casette player and pushed play. Her voice, undiminished, began, “I had a feeling you would try something like this….”