Just After Midnight

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

“Less than two months,” Faith said, feeling as though she might have missed her conversational off-ramp.

What Constance and Sarah’s loss said about the world. How it withdrew Faith’s ability to pretend that the world could not—would not—strike with no notice, offering up a loss that could take a person’s breath away. Of course it can, she thought, and you know it better than just about anybody. We only pretend it can’t, a minute or two at a time, to help us get up and out of the house in the morning.

People will look right into the face of something they caused and tell you all day long how it wasn’t their fault. How they were only an innocent victim. No, you had to know all the circumstances and decide for yourself.

Faith wasn’t sure whether or not she should be alarmed. But she was, because that was her new default setting.

Because when you really love someone, you want them to be happy. Even if it can’t be with you.”

Please. Please, Faith. I’m begging you. The day’s not over. It’s still today. Please, please just let me have today. Again,

No insult intended. You’re a perfect example of exactly what you are.”

“Every time I turn around life throws me a situation where two conflicting things are true at the same time. At least since I grew up and got married. Seems like the older I get, the less things want to agree to be only one way at a time.”

“Sarah. Listen. You’re in a position no kid your age should ever have to be in. Nobody is watching you and judging how you’re doing with this. You’re not being graded. It’s an impossible thing—a terrible thing. So just get through it any way you can, okay? Don’t get too hung up on what it means to get through it just exactly right.”

“I think very often in life we do something important for someone else for no better reason than that they need us to. And really, when you think about it . . . what more reason is needed?”