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It wasn’t quite right to say that Theresa was bad, though she could be. She was simply the most. The most brave and beautiful and brash and clever. Even the most devout, in her way.
She imagined them sinking to the bottom of the sea, all her worries for nothing.
She was her mother’s daughter, she supposed. Prickly when she was most in need of love.
“Live long enough, and life teaches you that God is not your lucky rabbit foot.”
Old age had distilled her down to her essence, as, Nora supposed, it had done to them all.
Little ones made everything better—there was no point in Christmas presents without believers, no reason to take pictures of a bunch of slightly overweight, pasty adults.
Communication was supposed to be the thing now. In theory, you could reach anyone anytime. When Nora saw her children, they always had their phones in hand. When she called her children, they rarely picked up.
