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It wasn’t a desire to die, but a need to hide, to delete herself.
Jonathan made her feel like the most important person in the world because she erased herself with him. She listened. She supported. She approved.
Margot never felt strong or sturdy enough for the details of her mother’s truth. She could barely handle her own. Growing up American was all about erasing the past—lightly acknowledging it but then forgetting and moving on.
history always rose to the surface. Among the wreckage, the dead floated to the top.
The pain in her stomach and chest overwhelmed her, as if she was being stabbed with sadness itself.
Every meal, even a somber one like this, was a celebration of what we had left, what remained on this earth to taste and feel and see.
And the whole world told women every day, If you are alone, you are no one. A woman alone is no one at all.
What would happen if she were unafraid of herself?
Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she couldn’t help but cover her face, as if to shield herself from the kindness of someone else.
In this country, it was easier to harm someone else than to stay alive. It was easier to take a life than to have one. Was she finally an American?
All the things she felt were different variations of pain.
