Play & Book Excerpts
The Best We Could Hope For
(Little A)
© Nicola Kraus
Prologue
In my life—in my allotted time—I bought, used, organized all the prosaic things: food processors, foil, thread, wood polish, baking soda—and yards of wrapping paper. I was also lucky enough to engage with the extraordinary, saw Tuscan sunsets and the Mona Lisa and, frankly, yes, it was a bit . . . small. Not like The Winged Victory. I loved that statue. The impossible wings. A woman in flight. Every visit my breath caught as it rounded into view—for whatever that’s worth--
What is it worth?
I did all the pedestrian things, the expected things. I dined out and joined clubs and bought sweaters—bought one, in fact, the day before. I participated. I voted and gardened and tried to stay abreast. I raised people, I tipped people, I loved people. And yet—yet—none of it staved it off.
It’s just so . . . circumscribed. We pick things, and they become the things we picked. A moment’s impulse, or a decision that must be made, a group of men, always men, standing around, waiting, with barely concealed impatience, for you to select a grout color or sign a name to the birth certificate, to point at one thing or another, and then one day you discover you had a vegetable-tiled kitchen for over twenty years. You were that person. And you’ll never know what any other option might have felt like—who you might have been. Maybe an Alpine pioneer—maybe a businesswoman—maybe someone who picked up the phone and said, what? “I’m sorry—I love you—I miss you—”
But you didn’t. That isn’t what you chose.
And now my daughter is sitting with all my choices, and she has no idea what to do with them. How many beige cardigans did one woman need, she thinks. And who was this woman? She cleans and sorts and tries to make sense of it all—and other times she sits on the floor of my room and she cannot move.
She cannot move.
If I had not—if he had not—if she had not—but I did and he did and she did—and our parents did—and their parents did—back and back to the first drought, the first failed crop, the first spike of rage taken out on someone smaller, weaker, more vulnerable nearby who learns a new option—a new choice. And so, it goes. She cannot move.
But she will.
She will peel back the coverlet and empty the drawers and sift the jewelry—she will make the calls and find the Realtor and disperse my choices, all the while asking why, why, why—and I will be revealed to be everywhere and nowhere.
I was not supposed to be here.
In my life—in my allotted time—I bought, used, organized all the prosaic things: food processors, foil, thread, wood polish, baking soda—and yards of wrapping paper. I was also lucky enough to engage with the extraordinary, saw Tuscan sunsets and the Mona Lisa and, frankly, yes, it was a bit . . . small. Not like The Winged Victory. I loved that statue. The impossible wings. A woman in flight. Every visit my breath caught as it rounded into view—for whatever that’s worth--
What is it worth?
I did all the pedestrian things, the expected things. I dined out and joined clubs and bought sweaters—bought one, in fact, the day before. I participated. I voted and gardened and tried to stay abreast. I raised people, I tipped people, I loved people. And yet—yet—none of it staved it off.
It’s just so . . . circumscribed. We pick things, and they become the things we picked. A moment’s impulse, or a decision that must be made, a group of men, always men, standing around, waiting, with barely concealed impatience, for you to select a grout color or sign a name to the birth certificate, to point at one thing or another, and then one day you discover you had a vegetable-tiled kitchen for over twenty years. You were that person. And you’ll never know what any other option might have felt like—who you might have been. Maybe an Alpine pioneer—maybe a businesswoman—maybe someone who picked up the phone and said, what? “I’m sorry—I love you—I miss you—”
But you didn’t. That isn’t what you chose.
And now my daughter is sitting with all my choices, and she has no idea what to do with them. How many beige cardigans did one woman need, she thinks. And who was this woman? She cleans and sorts and tries to make sense of it all—and other times she sits on the floor of my room and she cannot move.
She cannot move.
If I had not—if he had not—if she had not—but I did and he did and she did—and our parents did—and their parents did—back and back to the first drought, the first failed crop, the first spike of rage taken out on someone smaller, weaker, more vulnerable nearby who learns a new option—a new choice. And so, it goes. She cannot move.
But she will.
She will peel back the coverlet and empty the drawers and sift the jewelry—she will make the calls and find the Realtor and disperse my choices, all the while asking why, why, why—and I will be revealed to be everywhere and nowhere.
I was not supposed to be here.
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Nicola Kraus is a New York City-based author and entrepreneur with 25 years’ experience in the publishing and entertainment industries and over six million copies of her books in print. She published her first novel, The Nanny Diaries, written with her then-creative partner, Emma McLaughlin, in 2002. In 2007, it was made into a movie with Scarlett Johansson, Paul Giamatti, and Laura Linney. In 2015, Nicola established The Finished Thought, a consultancy that helps to shepherd aspiring authors through the writing and publication process.
Her most recent novel, The Best We Could Hope For was published in May 2025. Find a feature with Nicola in this month's issue. |
Nicola Kraus
Photo Courtesy: Nicola Kraus |
