Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine

by Gail Honeyman

I didn’t burn, Mummy, I thought. I walked through the fire and I lived. There are scars on my heart, just as thick, as disfiguring as those on my face. I know they’re there. I hope some undamaged tissue remains, a patch through which love can come in and flow out. I hope.

She was, quite simply, a nice lady who’d raised a family and now lived quietly with her cats and grew vegetables.

This was both nothing and everything.

I felt a little glow inside – not a blaze, more like a small, steady candle.