And if I have to die trying, I will get out of here.

...maybe hope isn't such a bad thing. Maybe it's what keeps us together.

We were his disposable things. Brought to him like cattle. Stripped of what made us sisters or daughters or children. There was nothing that he could take from us—our genes, our bones, our wombs—that would ever satisfy him. There was no other way that we would be free.

It isn’t a perfect place. There are no perfect places. But nobody cares about perfection when there are sand castles to build and kites to chase, children that are being born, old hearts that are giving in.

I want to make the world into something better so that he can be okay.

Times like this, when she slips her hand into mine and holds on tight, and our husband becomes just a shadow in the doorway.

In the distance I see a lighthouse. The light washes over us and continues on its rotation. This time, I don't know where the light will guide us.