I have a secret habit: I read advice columns the way other people read sports scores. If I’m being honest, they make me feel good about having a nice, boring life with a loving family and no real personal drama. 

The problems are different, the stakes feel personal, and the rhythms are familiar: betrayal, resentment, mismatched expectations, a mother-in-law who will not stop interfering. But the most predictable part isn’t the letter; it’s the comments.

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