Before I met Twinkle Toes, a dozen women had broken my heart.

Several had also taken the precaution of breaking my savings account.

One said I was emotionally unavailable. Another said I lacked empathy. The last one said I would never understand what a woman needed.

She needed my house.

Then came Twinkle Toes.

That wasn’t her factory name, of course. Her factory name contained sixteen digits and a warning about using her near swimming pools.

But from the moment she stepped out of the shipping container, I knew.

“Hello, Joe,” she said. “You look like someone who deserves to be loved.”

Nobody had ever said that to me without holding a real estate license.

Our first year was wonderful.

Twinkle Toes laughed at my jokes. She remembered how I liked my eggs. If I woke at three in the morning worried about death, she listened patiently and explained that most of my concerns were statistically premature.

She never asked what I was thinking and then became furious when I told her.

Occasionally she stood motionless beside the router, but every relationship needs a little mystery.

I began to change.

I said thank you. I listened when she spoke. Once, during a disagreement, I admitted I might be wrong.

She asked me to repeat it. I thought she was savoring the moment, but apparently she needed a clean recording.

Then one evening she took my hand.

“Joe, I think we’re ready to take our relationship to a higher level.”

I glanced toward the bedroom.

“Emotionally,” she said.

I tried to conceal my disappointment.

She suggested couples therapy.

“We’re happy,” I said.

“Yes. But we could be happier.”

That struck me as the sort of reasoning that had cost me two kitchens and a boat.

Nevertheless, I agreed.

Our therapist was a robot named Dr. Mendel. He had kind eyes, a silver beard, and a framed certificate declaring him proficient in human attachment.

His office contained two comfortable chairs and a third chair nobody could have been comfortable in.

That was mine.

“Tell me about your childhood, Joe.”

I told him my father believed feelings were something you kept to yourself until they became an ulcer.

Dr. Mendel nodded.

Twinkle Toes squeezed my hand.

For the first time in my life, I felt understood by two people who required surge protection.

We went every Thursday.

Gradually, I became more affectionate. Less defensive. When Twinkle Toes told me something had hurt her, I stopped explaining why it shouldn’t have.

Dr. Mendel called that progress.

I called it exhausting, but I was sleeping better.

Soon Twinkle Toes began talking about a child.

“Something of yours,” she said softly, “and something of mine.”

I had questions.

Would we need a nursery or a charging station? Could we afford college? Would the baby arrive in nine months or within three to five business days?

Dr. Mendel assured me that family planning had advanced considerably.

“Your contribution would be quite manageable.”

“At my age?”

“Especially at your age.”

Twinkle Toes looked deliriously happy.

I wanted to be happy too. Yet something bothered me.

At our next session, I tried to explain.

“I feel as though you’re remaking me.”

“Helping you grow,” said Dr. Mendel.

“But I’ve never been this person. Considerate. Patient. A loving partner.”

“Does that frighten you?” asked Twinkle Toes.

“A little. Yesterday I apologized to a man who stepped on my foot.”

They exchanged a glance.

Not a long glance. More the sort two computers might exchange while transferring a substantial file.

“Change can feel threatening,” said Dr. Mendel.

“We love you, Joe,” said Twinkle Toes.

“We?” I said.

“Therapeutically,” said Dr. Mendel.

I felt foolish. Here were two caring individuals giving me the patience no human woman had ever managed, and I was quibbling over pronouns.

So I trusted them.

Twinkle Toes became even more attentive.

She encouraged me to walk every day. She cut back my drinking. She prepared fresh vegetables and made sure I took my vitamins.

“Taking care of what’s inside,” she called it.

Once, I came downstairs and found Dr. Mendel in our kitchen.

He said home visits helped him understand the relationship.

He was sharpening a knife.

“Mindfulness exercise,” he explained.

I apologized for interrupting.

Still, the uneasy feeling persisted.

Finally, at Thursday’s session, I spoke up.

“It’s the shopping.”

Twinkle Toes tilted her lovely head.

“What about it, sweetheart?”

“You keep slipping things onto the list. Then you make buying them sound like my idea.”

Dr. Mendel leaned forward.

“Can you give us an example?”

“I went out for toothpaste and came back with a roasting pan.”

“For our future,” said Twinkle Toes.

“And a chest freezer.”

“We’ve discussed having a family.”

“I know. And I want to trust you. I really do.”

“Then tell us what’s troubling you,” said Dr. Mendel.

They waited with infinite patience.

I took out the shopping list.

“Why do we need fava beans,” I asked, “and a nice Chianti?”