I wonder what it’s like for her, looking so much like a dead girl.

It's best to let her go," he says. No, no, that's wrong. It's never right to give up on someone.

My head is my favorite swimming pool.

The sullen boy sitting before me is not my husband, and the girl he is fretting over isn't me, will never be me.

On tiptoes the redhead wouldn't even reach my shoulders; she is clearly too young to be a bride. And the willowy girl is too forlorn. And I am too unwilling. Yet here we are.

It was a terrible decision, and I confess I'd make it again.

I should not have loved my daughter as I did. Not in this world in which nothing lives for long. You children are flies. You are roses. You multiply and die.