We All Live Here

by Jojo Moyes

There is no actual evidence of anything, after all. It’s like battling fog. Just an absence, vague whispers, a never-ending sense that something is badly wrong.

It turns out that knowing something is entirely your fault does not necessarily help you get over it.

just as she has settled into dozens of such school performances, braced for their odd mixture of poignancy and boredom, the way as a parent you can want these moments to last five minutes and a lifetime all at once.

And the love and connection is meant to somehow sit underneath it all like—I don’t know—grass under a rock, a bit battered but ready to grow again when the rock lifts.