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She’d learned from her mother that a woman needed to save some pocket change for a rainy day, just in case.
A mother lives in a world of magical thinking . . . the belief that somehow, some way, if she packs the perfect lunch, she might be granted the perfect child in return at the end of the school day. This kind of domestic witchcraft rarely yields the desired results. Children have infinite ways of thwarting the clever bargains their mothers make.
It was my time, that’s all. Some people are lucky. They just go to sleep and never wake up. But for some . . . it ends like this. We can’t know until it happens. Not a one of us. We just got to live our lives and not think about dying all the time.”
Sometimes solitude was grief’s best friend.
