Small Great Things

by Jodi Picoult

but we were better at taking care of ourselves, I suppose, than Ms. Mina was.

When we finally emerged at Seventy-second Street, the world was white.

I waited for Mama to move through the dark rooms like Tinker Bell, alighting on a switch or a handle or a knob so that the sleeping beast of a house was gradually brought to life.

The experience of watching Louis being born affected us all differently.

If this man didn’t acknowledge that something truly horrible had happened—or worse, if he kept pretending for the rest of his life that it never had—a hole would open up inside him.

It felt like looking into the face of the sun: once I turned away, I was blind to everything else.

Part of labor is conversation; it’s the distraction that makes the pain ebb and it’s the glue that bonds a nurse to her patient.

I’d like to think my taking that one straw off her back was what gave her the strength to make it to transition.

they don’t have a problem with what I’ve done.

Just with who I am.

it’s white hot:

And for that, I became mythic.