No one had ever told her this basic fact: not everyone got to be loved.

But hope got in, no matter how hard and fast I tried to stomp it out. Like these tiny fire ants we used to get in Portland. No matter how fast you liked them, there were always more, a steady stream of them, resistant, ever-multiplying. Maybe, the hope said. Maybe.

He is no longer mine to lose, but the grief is there, a gnawing sense of disbelief.

The priests and the scientists are right about one thing: At our heart, at our base, we are no better than animals.

This is the world we live in, a world of safety and happiness and order, a world without love. A world where children crack their heads on stone fireplaces and nearly gnaw off their tongues and the parents are concerned. Not heartbroken, frantic, desperate. Concerned, as they are when you fail mathematics, as they are when they are late to pay their taxes.

We wanted the freedom to love. We wanted the freedom to choose. Now we have to fight for it.

I’ve always hated being looked at.