The novelist and diarist refused to hope, until she saw how much her sister gained from it, regardless of the outcome
I used to think mild pessimism a reasonable byproduct of a riches-to-rags childhood and that never allowing myself to feel hopeful was entirely rational. I’d trained myself to expect the worst and not even to think about the best. It started out as self-preservation, but morphed into something to do with manners – being modest and deserving. Finally, it became a sort of superstition – like not stepping on the cracks in the pavement, or shoplifting when pregnant.
This changed suddenly some years ago. My sister Vic had a possible Big New Thing on the horizon. A huge thing that, if it came off, would change her life – in a good way. She had done all she could do, it was out of her hands now. She just had to cross her fingers and wait.
Continue reading...
0 comments :
Post a Comment