The woman I’m calling Sharon was old enough to be one of my aunts. In her early fifties, she had gray hair styled in a loose bob, which often held her bifocals when she pushed them up so she could dab her eyes. She cried over an unresolved conflict with her sister, over the health of a son addicted to heroin, and over the poor match she had accepted in marriage. She had worked thirty years in a textile mill, moving from the line to the office, but had gone out on disability for breathing problems. When she was hospitalized after a suicide attempt, a faculty member saw her, heard her story, and took out his prescription pad.

Sharon could hardly leave the house. She showed me the wonder and limits of therapy.