I know how to be the witness to her grief. I don't know how to be this kind of villain.

Someone could cut through the mess in our house and look at it like one might look at rings on a tree or layers of sediment. They'd find the black-and-white hairs of a dog we had when I was six, the acid-washed jeans my mother once wore, the seven blood-soaked pillowcases from the time I skinned my knee. All our family secrets rest in endless piles.

Death’s favorites don’t die.

Jewels, lies, slips of paper, dried flowers, memories of thing long past, useless quotations, idle hands, beads, buttons, and mischief.

I thought you were her knight, but you have become only her woodsman--taking little girls into the forest to cut out their hearts.

Mine. The language of love is like that, possessive. That should be the first warning that it's not going to encourage anyone's betterment.

Yeah, the whole family knows. It's no big deal. One night at dinner I said, 'Mom, you know the forbidden love that Spock has for Kirk? Well, me too.' It was easier for her to understand that way.