I’d lived my life according to two principles: discipline and control. Until now.
There’s that phrase, though, isn’t there. “How’s that working out for you?” The answer, when it came to Hope Sinclair, was, “not so well.” She might be little, she might be sweet, and she might be young, but if I’d thought she’d be compliant anywhere but in bed, I’d learned my lesson.
To keep her, I had to let her go. To hold her, I had to turn her loose. To have her in my life, I had to accept that she was nine thousand miles away in New Zealand, in my grandfather’s house in Katikati, surrounded by the loving members of my Maori whanau and much too close to the not-so-loving ones.
All of that was killing me. On the other hand, I thought it might be working, so I was going to do it. No matter what.