"She drank, with one hand, all the Irish coffee.  And then she played all sorts of songs.  She didn't know what she played, couldn't have said, but she was inside the music, and the lights on the Christmas tree were bright and seemed far away.  Inside the music like this, she understood many things.  She understood that Simon was a disappointed man if he needed, at this age, to tell her he had pitied her for years.  She understood that as he drove his car back down the cost toward Boston, toward his wife with whom he had raised three children, that something in him would be satisfied to have witnessed her the way he had tonight, and she understood that this form of comfort was true for many people, as it made Malcolm feel better to call Walter Dalton a pathetic fairy, but it was a thin milk, this form of nourishment; it could not change that you had wanted to be a concert pianist and ended up a real estate lawyer, that you had married a woman and stayed married to her for thirty years, when she did not ever find you lovely in bed." 

~Elizabeth Strout, Olive Kitteridge