That’s how you know you love someone, I guess, when you can’t experience anything without wishing the other person were there to see it, too.
Why is it so hard to articulate love yet so easy to express disappointment?
I’ll never be ready. Yet at the same time, you always want to reach the end. You can’t fly to a destination and linger in the air. I want to reach the end of this thing, and I feel terrible about it.
You can’t compare and rank heartache. Pain is pain is pain. There is no precise measurement. No quarter cup.
Perhaps I did nothing because I don’t have enough fear to be a good parent.
I tell Esther she should ease up on lard. There’s no need to mix lard in with Scottie’s rice, chicken, and beans. I tell her she hasn’t read the blogs. I’ve read the blogs. I know what Scottie should eat.
I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t give you everything you wanted. I wasn’t everything you wanted. You were everything I wanted.
I’m sorry, I say. I didn’t give you everything you wanted. I wasn’t everything you wanted. You were everything I wanted.
I lean down so that my face is right in front of hers and whisper, ‘He doesn’t love you. I love you.
I tilt my face up and inhale, willing my surroundings to enter me somehow and to remind me how small I am.
What’s great about teen fiction is that it’s all mixed up – there’s highbrow and lowbrow!