The Latecomer

by Jean Hanff Korelitz

She had met his parents, the all but silent Hermann and the terrifying Selda (her expression so frozen Johanna truly did not know whether she was being singled out for special disapprobation or was merely a tiny part of a disapproved-of world),

The dachshund made a point of climbing many stairs, just to soil the carefully chosen carpet in the boys’ room. (It was a lot of effort for him to go to, but apparently worth it.)

Polite enough. Attentive enough. It was basically the way Salo had always behaved toward them, as if the fatherhood protocol had been explained to him by authorities, and he ceded to their expertise.

When the kids began ninth grade, Harrison joined the swim team, mainly because he liked the fact that when he had his head underwater people didn’t talk to him.

Probably, there were support groups out there, full of people feeling precisely what she was feeling and fording the exact same dangerous waters, but Johanna had never been much of a group person. Actually, now that she was really considering her situation, she hadn’t been all that much of a one-on-one person, either.

This was the flaw in making a bargain with yourself. There is no one else there to agree to the terms.

Harrison had added a highly unnecessary layer of smugness to his already noxious personality,

Now, it’s a part of the Seder tradition to welcome the stranger to our table, and to link our story to the larger story we all share. When one suffers, everyone suffers. When one of us is still enslaved, no one is really free. That’s the big moral of the Seder.

“It makes a difference, seeing the sort of person your child will be living with. You’ll see one day, when you take your daughter to college.” Sally made herself nod. In the dark obscurity of her own future, this was one scenario she felt certain would never occur.

Anyway, I gave up. Or no, I didn’t give up, exactly, I just downshifted to maintenance. Psychic maintenance.” “Hers?” said Sally, crossing her legs. “No. Mine. Hers is out of my control.

From the airport they were driven south through farmland and past manor houses, some old, some built to look as if they were, but given away by their overblown dimensions and attached garages.

learning things was the whole point of being alive.

The baby was banging away on a toy xylophone across the hall, the single Oppenheimer whose state of being approached anything remotely like contentment.