One day she will admit the futility of her actions. She will stop her pretense that such variant hopes as theirs could ever allow them to build a life together. She will cease to mourn the ending of the hope that they can be like Frank and Ava.
She will not make the same mistakes again. She will choose men based on shared hopes and aesthetic compatibility before all else. She will maintain a safe distance, keeping her opinions to herself, and she will allow herself to become brittle and silently pensive. She will refuse to fall in love and will instead fill red notebooks with wishes and maybes and might-have-beens.
She will probably have one or two more husbands and like the first one, those marriages will fail because she is strange and incorrigible. Like her mother before her, she will bear striking children to a man she does not love, and her children will first admire and then pity her. She will wake up one morning and she will realize that the things she promised herself would never happen have come true, and she will wonder where she went wrong. She should have been named Dolores or perhaps Madeleine.
She will forget what it’s like to be a real person and she will die with a stack of red notebooks full of wishes and maybes and might-have-beens and no-one will know who they are mourning.