When Troy was released in 2004, I watched it. The literature teacher in me could not bear the thought of missing it.

Afterward, I anticipated that one of Hollywood’s major studios would eventually give The Odyssey the same grand cinematic treatment. I imagined vast seas, legendary creatures, powerful gods, and the long, perilous journey of Odysseus brought spectacularly to the screen. But year after year, that film did not come. Several screen productions drew inspiration from Homer’s epic, but none matched the scale I had envisioned.

Finally, twenty-two years later—a wait two years longer than Odysseus’s total twenty-year absence from Ithaca—a big-budget, star-studded film based on Homer’s Odyssey arrived.

And once again, the literature teacher in me could not bear to miss it.

Like many literary classics adapted for the screen, I did not expect either Troy or The Odyssey to reproduce Homer’s epic poems faithfully and completely. Modern English translations of each work run to hundreds of pages. In bringing them to the screen, filmmakers must condense events, combine characters, and reshape parts of the story according to the demands of modern cinema.

Nevertheless, I still wish the scriptwriters of Troy had not killed Agamemnon and Menelaus on Trojan soil. In Homer’s story, both survived the war. Agamemnon was killed only after returning home, while Menelaus eventually returned to Sparta with Helen. As a teacher of Greek mythology, I could understand the filmmakers’ need for dramatic changes, but the literature teacher in me could not help protesting quietly.

When Queen Penelope first appeared on the screen in The Odyssey, I was reminded of one of my favorite questions for students attending my Greek Mythology class:

Who would you rather have as a girlfriend or wife—Helen of Troy or Queen Penelope? Why?

If I were answering my own question today, I would choose Penelope.

I would not choose Penelope merely to condemn Helen, but neither would I remove all personal responsibility from her. In versions in which she willingly left Sparta with Paris, Helen was an adult capable of exercising free will. She made a choice—to leave her husband, child, and homeland—and choices carry consequences. The influence of Paris and the intervention of Aphrodite may help explain her decision, but they do not necessarily erase her agency.

At the same time, personal responsibility should not be confused with sole responsibility. Helen did not command the armies or decide that powerful kings and warriors would continue fighting for ten years. Paris, the Greek and Trojan leaders, the warriors, and even the gods all played their parts. Helen may bear responsibility for her own decision, but she cannot carry the moral burden of every death that followed.

My choice of Penelope, therefore, rests not merely on what Helen did but, more importantly, on what Penelope consistently chose to do. Physical beauty has value, but a life partner must possess qualities far more enduring than beauty.

Penelope was faithful, certainly, but she was also intelligent, patient, resilient, and discerning. She did not merely sit and wait helplessly for Odysseus. She protected her household through her ingenuity, weaving during the day and secretly undoing her work at night to delay the suitors. Even when Odysseus finally returned, she did not allow emotion to overpower her judgment. She tested him through the secret of their marriage bed before accepting that the stranger standing before her was truly her husband.

Her love was steadfast, but it was never foolish.

More importantly, Penelope was Odysseus’s intellectual equal. Both possessed metis—the cunning, strategic intelligence that enables a person to survive through wisdom rather than physical strength alone. Odysseus used his metis to overcome the dangers he encountered during his journey. Penelope used the same quality to preserve their household, protect their family, and resist the men who sought to take Odysseus’s place.

While Odysseus was fighting his way home across hostile seas, Penelope was fighting a quieter battle within the walls of Ithaca. His struggle was outward and physical; hers was inward, domestic, and political. Yet both endured through patience, restraint, and intelligence. Even her final test involving their marriage bed was an encounter between two perceptive minds: a question that only the real Odysseus could answer and a secret that only the two of them shared. Penelope was therefore not simply the woman waiting for the hero. She was his true partner—someone capable of meeting him as an equal.

Perhaps when we are young, we are more easily captivated by Helen—her extraordinary beauty, the admiration she inspired, and the drama surrounding her. As we grow older, however, we begin to recognize Penelope’s quieter greatness: not the power to attract countless men, but the strength to remain true during twenty years of uncertainty; not beauty that begins a story, but character that keeps it from ending.

So, my answer is Penelope.

Yet perhaps the better question is not simply, “Which woman would I choose?” The question must also turn toward me:

“Am I becoming the kind of man who would be worthy of a Penelope?”

It is easy to desire beauty, loyalty, intelligence, patience, and strength in another person. The harder and more honest task is to cultivate those same qualities within ourselves. We should not merely look for someone worth coming home to; we must also become someone worth waiting for—and someone worthy of being welcomed home.