She was literally all things to all people: A muse. A school principal. A gas-station attendant. A girlfriend, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a mother. A shoulder to cry on. A voice to soothe you to sleep. We always figured there’d be a price; sure enough, one day, she demanded we also become whatever she needed: A gardener. A plumber. A chicken if she was hungry. A dog if she felt lonely. A massage chair, a high-def TV, an especially absorbent mop. We can all be anything we want to be, or, more specifically, anything she turns us into.