Several reviewers have mentioned their disgruntlement with the fact that Louisa's life is always directed by men, or at the very least that it takes a man to release the "real" Louisa. I can absolutely see the complaint. It's an old, patriarchal idea: The poor, undereducated woman is saved by the wealthy, intelligent man. How else is a woman supposed to realize her value than if a man reveals it to her? But I was surprised to find that for most of the book it didn't bother me that much. Perhaps it's because I've built my life around following my spouse around the country, fading into the background as he moves forward in his career, and being overshadowed by him (unintentionally) in all circumstances, including when I gave birth to our first child. It's not necessarily awesome, but it's my life, so when I saw a similar theme in this novel, I was okay going with it and seeing where it led. Of course, where it led was a big scene in which the "I wouldn't be who I am without you" was spread so thickly it triggered my gag reflex. It's possible I'm expecting too much of this book, though. I mean, women have been known to define themselves by their relationships with men. Should art imitate life, or should it offer a better alternative to the way things are? 
 Another issue this novel brought up for me which I don't think the author intended it to bring up was the question of what role family members take when a loved one dies young. The parents are still alive and think of the dying person as "theirs" but if there's a spouse or partner involved, that person is likely---and quite reasonably---going to think of the dying person as "theirs." How do they avoid arguments in those last moments about who gets to sit at the bedside, who gets to hold the hands, who gets to be part of the medical decisions? The novel doesn't address this directly, but I was a little surprised that it didn't come up. The fact that there was no tension around this was one of the many things toward the end of the novel that seemed inconsistent with the characters' behavior up until that point. 
 I appreciate the conversation in the novel about assisted suicide, but I wish Moyes had handled it with a little more subtlety. The similes were out of control (and sometimes bizarre), the phrase "a solitary tear" appeared way too often, and the reveal of what happened in the maze was trite. It was so predictable that I thought it had already been revealed. And how did she gaze out of the window of the plane if she was sitting on the aisle? But apparently none of these were annoying enough that I stopped reading because I finished the whole novel and crossed another book off of my to-read list. 
 *UPDATE (08/31/16): My sister visited a few weeks ago and before she left, we visited the book section of our local warehouse club store so she could pick up something to read on the plane trip home. She reached for Me Before You. 
 "I heard this was good," she said. 
 "Ugh, I thought it was awful!" I nearly shouted. 
 The woman next to us looked towards me with surprise. "Really? I loved it!" 
 She was clutching the sequel to her chest. 
 "Yes, I guess a lot of people love it," I revised, "it just didn't do it for me." 
 These sorts of things wouldn't happen if my sister read my Goodreads reviews.