Home Front

by Kristin Hannah

There are some things you learn best in calm, some in storm. —WILLA CATHER

The way she saw it, some families were like well-tended parks, with pretty daffodil borders and big, sprawling trees that offered respite from the summer sun. Others—and this she knew firsthand—were battlefields, bloody and dark, littered with shrapnel and body parts.

Now she was impatient with all of it, wearied by the drama of her parents’ marriage. Nothing ever changed, and Jolene was the one who had to clean up every mess. She picked her way through the broken pieces of glass and knelt at her mother’s side.

Red. The color of blood and fire and loss.

What surprised her was how it felt, hearing that her parents were dead.

Happiness was a choice she knew how to make. She chose not to think about the things that bothered her; that way, they disappeared.

If there was one thing Jolene understood, it was rejection.

No one could hurt you if you didn’t let them. A good offense was the best defense.

I’ve got your six literally meant that a helicopter was behind you, flying in the six o’clock position. What it really meant was I’m here for you. I’ve got your back. That was what Jolene had found in the army, and in the Guard, and in Tami. I’ve got your six.

Her turbulent, ugly childhood had left her impatient with people who couldn’t choose to be happy.

“Marriages go through hard times. Sometimes you have to get in there and fight for your love. That’s the only way for it to get better.”

Five words to change a world, to dissolve the ground beneath a woman’s feet. It was a tidal wave, that sentence, whooshing in without warning, undermining foundations, leaving homes crumbled in the aftermath.

But now she saw what she had never dared to see before: this love of hers was one-sided. She was the one who took care; he was the one who took.

Still, they were a military family, and his wife was at war. And a four-year-old had seen the truth of that before he had.

You never know who will say just the thing you need to hear.

“You wanted a divorce.” “Jo, I’ve been trying to tell you since I got here: I love you. I was an idiot. Forgive me.”

“Here’s what you do, Michael. You go upstairs and tell your children about their mother. Then you hold them when they cry and you get your family—and this house—ready for your wife’s return. You don’t make the same mistake again. Next time, you look at Jolene—all of her, Michael, even what’s missing—and you tell her you love her. You do love her, don’t you?” “I do. But she won’t believe me. Not now.” “Who would? You have been foolish. You will have to swallow your pride and convince her … and yourself, perhaps. It will not be easy, nor should it.” She patted his thigh. “And now, you will go up and tell your daughters that their mother is coming home from war.”

We don’t receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us. —MARCEL PROUST

“I’m having … trouble, Michael,” she said, swallowing hard.

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

“This would be a good time to change that, Michael.”

“These girls are not worth your friendship, Betsy.”

It doesn’t matter what you think of the war, you have to be grateful to the warriors, of whom we ask so much. To whom we sometimes give too little.”

“It’s not intentions that matter. It’s actions. My drill instructor used to say that all the time. We are what we do and say, not what we intend to.

New York was a city that showed off its greatness, sought to make tourists look at man’s accomplishments with awe. D.C. knew that man’s greatness lay not in stone and steel, but rather in ideas and decisions.

She understood now that some things had to be fought for to mean anything. There were journeys in life no one could take for you.