Winter Garden

by Kristin Hannah

Sometimes a thing was its truest self when the colors were stripped away.

Words were like pennies, fallen into corners and down the cracks, not worth the effort of collecting.

“You and your sister are not close.” It was a statement rather than a question, as it certainly should be, but Meredith heard something sharp in her mother’s voice, a judgment, perhaps. Her mother wasn’t looking past Meredith for once, or beside her; she was staring right at her, as if seeing her for the first time. “No, Mom. We’re not close. We hardly ever see each other.” “You will regret this.” Thank you, Yoda. “It’s fine, Mom. Can I make you some tea?” “When I am gone, you will only have each other.”

There is a feeling in your heart when you meet the boy you’ll love. It’s like . . . drowning and then coming up for air.”

It is a kiss that, once begun, never really ends. Interrupted, yes. Paused, certainly. But from that very moment onward, Vera sees the whole of her life as only a breath away from kissing him again.

“To lose love is a terrible thing,” Mom said softly. “But to turn away from it is unbearable. Will you spend the rest of your life replaying it in your head? Wondering if you walked away too soon or too easily? Or if you’ll ever love anyone that deeply again?”