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the language of flowers,” Elizabeth said. “It’s from the Victorian era, like your name. If a man gave a young lady a bouquet of flowers, she would race home and try to decode it like a secret message. Red roses mean love; yellow roses infidelity.
“I believe you can prove everyone wrong, too, Victoria. Your behavior is a choice; it isn’t who you are.”
“You have to want it”
I wanted more than anything to be that girl, to be a child again
wanted to have lunch with my angry ten-year-old self, to warn her of this morning and give her the flowers to point her in a different direction.
“Do you really think you’re the only human being alive who is unforgivably flawed?
