It was 3:11 a.m. For the hundredth time, Mara looked at her clock. Frustrated and exhausted, she got out of bed. She went downstairs and fixed herself a toasted tomato sandwich—insomnia food.
She had been unable to sleep since she returned from the other side last week. Uncontrollably, she began to sob. The tears rolled down her face. Mara felt that she was being wrenched apart. Five minutes had passed when she looked up and saw her father peering down at her.
“What's the matter, love?” he asked tenderly.
“Oh, Daddy, I can't sleep. I am so exhausted. But it's more than that. I lie down, and my mind won't turn off. It's not that I think about things I have to do the next day. I know some people are like that. I feel as if my soul is being torn apart.
“It seems that I feel all the hurt and evil in the world. I can't bear to watch the news or read the newspaper. We're surrounded by suffering and ignorance, and yet people just carry on with their meaningless lives. And then I feel this terrible longing. It's an ache in the pit of my gut, like I am supposed to do something. I'm going to put my heart into it, but I know I am going to fail. How can I go to sleep, knowing that my life is going to be filled with failure after failure?”
Typically, Mara would not have spoken so candidly, but fatigue had removed her filter. Overwhelmed at what she had spoken, Mara broke down again but this time in those silent, internal sobs until her body was shaking, tears flowing, but no sound arose.
Her father, who seemed unsurprised at his daughter's profound thoughts, grabbed her, held her to him, and whispered over and over, “My baby. My baby.” She crumpled into him and cried until finally her body was still.
“You, my darling, have the spirit of an artist. I wish I could protect you. I wish I could take it away so you would never agonise. But then you would not be my Mara. You are empathetic and insightful. You will probably suffer like this your entire life. I just hope you can learn to sleep.”
Mara looked up at him with dark, wet eyes. His fourteen-year-old daughter was not looking at him. It was the newborn babe he held in his arms. It was the little girl who used to sit on his lap. Despite his memories, he saw a wisdom in her.
“I'm not going to coddle you. Part of what you are feeling is adolescent hormones. Part of it is becoming an adult and finding a place in the world. But what you say is true: everyone with a shred of decency has had a time of not wanting to face the world because it is too horrific. Someone is always dying, suffering.
“Your job is to live your life. Find a way to do so that maintains your sanity. You must look after yourself, your friends, your family. Be a piece of goodness amidst it all. And help others. But do not spread yourself too thin. There will always be more pain than you can do anything about. Remember your job. Don't live a meaningless life, as you put it. Don't throw away your life in some grand gesture because it will not be enough. And you will have lost the opportunity to find out what your life may bring.”
“But what about all the failure? I sense that. I know it,” she demanded.
“I'm sure you do.” He paused. “It's not success that makes us who we are, but it's that very failure you sense. Anyone can handle winning. That is the easiest part of life. It's how you handle defeat that makes you the person you are.”
Mara took her father's words in before speaking again.
“Thank you, Dad. Thank you for not lying to me and telling me that everything would be okay.”
He smiled soberly and said that he loved her. He went up to bed, knowing she would follow when she was ready. True enough, a few minutes later, Mara went up to her room and slept a dreamless sleep.