The Lost Daughter

by Elena Ferrante

Nina remained for a moment in an uncomfortable position, bending forward, with her hands around her daughter’s hips, pulling in the attempt to detach her, but careful also to avoid her kicks. I felt that she was wavering between patience and being fed up, understanding and the wish to start crying.

“I loved them too much and it seemed to me that love for them would keep me from becoming myself.”

“Because I realized that I wasn’t capable of creating anything of my own that could truly equal them.”