Atmosphere

by Taylor Jenkins Reid

Joan found a familiar peace in going unnoticed. So it came as a huge shock to the men in the department, many of whom fancied themselves secretly destined for victory, to see that the woman they’d overlooked was lapping them in a race they did not know had started.

“Sometimes I don’t know if I knew my dad or I just created a man out of thin air, as a god to pray to.”

Jimmy had been told from a young age that fear and failing and trying and wanting and openness and kindness and sincerity made him weak. And because he had believed it, he’d learned to suppress all of those things. And when he saw those traits in others, he hated them because he hated himself.

Joan felt, so acutely, that the incurable problem with life was that nothing was ever in balance. That she could not have toddler Frances and fifth-grade Frances at the same time. She could not meet adult Frances and have a moment to hold baby Frances all at

once. You could not have a little of everything you wanted.

The word isn’t what matters. It’s the specific relationship. You love that kid more than anything on this planet. She knows that. And that’s what matters.”