The Nightingale

by Kristin Hannah

If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: In love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are. Today’s young people want to know everything about everyone. They think talking about a problem will solve it. I come from a quieter generation. We understand the value of forgetting, the lure of reinvention.

If I had told him the truth long ago, or had danced and drunk and sung more, maybe he would have seen me instead of a dependable, ordinary mother. He loves a version of me that is incomplete. I always thought it was

what I wanted: to be loved and admired. Now I think perhaps I’d like to be known.

She wanted to bottle how safe she felt in this moment, so she could drink of it later when loneliness and fear left her parched.

“Don’t think about who they are. Think about who you are and what sacrifices you can live with and what will break you.”

“You’re not alone, and you’re not the one in charge,” Mother said gently. “Ask for help when you need it, and give help when you can. I think that is how we serve God—and each other and ourselves—in times as dark as these.”