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Isn’t it interesting how a person can be as present after death as they were in real life?
But words—the sting of them, the stigma—endured forever. Their words sting to this very day.
Do you ever wonder what it would be like to go back to places you remember from your childhood, to see them again through adult eyes? Would they look the same or would they appear smaller, like objects in a rearview mirror, not because they have changed but because you have?
“Reading helps me understand things,” I say. “And people. I also like to visit other worlds.” “Don’t like the one you’re in?” “Not always, no.”
“In my experience,” I say, “secrets have a way of punishing those who keep them.”
“Gran, if the Grimthorpes are Old Money, does that make us New Money?” I ask. She laughs out loud, but I know she’s laughing with me, not at me. “My dear, we are No Money.”
Shame is the scar the demons leave behind.
was afraid of myself, of my infinite capacity for understanding things too late.
When she turns to face me, she’s smiling, and I swear to you that smile is genuine. She has willed it from some wellspring deep within, and now she offers it like a bouquet of fresh roses. She dons her bravest face because what other choice does she have?
