Kristin Hannah

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

Leni was afraid to stay and afraid to leave. It was strange—stupid, even—but she often felt like the only adult in her family, as if she were the ballast that kept the creaky Allbright boat on an even keel.

But sometimes, especially on days like today, Leni was afraid. It felt to her as if her family stood poised on the edge of a great precipice that could collapse at any second, crumble away like the houses that crashed down Seattle’s unstable, waterlogged hillsides.

She had lain awake long past midnight, reading about the vast landscape of Alaska. It had captivated her in an unexpected way.

Through the lacy snow on the windshield, she saw her parents through the living room window. Dad pulled her mother into his arms and kissed her. They began to dance haltingly, although there was probably no music in the house. Her dad didn’t need any; he always said he carried love songs in his heart.

Ah’m goin’ t’ be farhty next moonth.

The last thing she wanted was to give someone the power to hurt her.

Dad had spent his life trying to create love where none existed—between his wife and his daughters—and he couldn’t give up even now.

She thought she’d known pain before, but she hadn’t; not until this moment.

“He is my home,” her mother said, shaking her head. “How will I live without him?”