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We don’t always get to choose, she reminds herself.
Now, Stephanie is astonished at how naive she was before the birth. Control is an illusion.
She sounds so whiny, like she can’t cope. She can’t stand women like that. She has always been someone who copes, and copes well.
She’s heard that people can lose their minds if they go long enough without it—they can start imagining things.
How ambitious she is for him—she hardly likes to admit it to herself, how invested she is in him—perhaps because he’s an only child.
She doesn’t want to be a single mother, making arrangements week in, week out, reminding Niall to make his support payments, because she knows—she has divorced friends, and she knows what it’s like.
He’d been shattered. He wasn’t lying about that. So why does he do it? Why does he cheat on her?
In today’s climate, people seem willing to believe just about anything—the more outrageous the lie the more gullible people seem to be.
Love flies out the window when the wolf is at the door.
It makes her wonder if love is just an illusion, one that disappears when reality gets too dark. No, she decides. Love is real. The love she feels for her baby daughters is real. But romantic love—maybe that’s all an illusion.
When trust goes, how quickly love disappears and self-preservation takes over.
“Why is it so hard to believe that a man might want to end a stupid affair and stay married?”
She’s coming up with a plan. It frightens her, but she needs a way out.
She’d thought of it in that darkest hour right before dawn, when the mind turns to things that shouldn’t survive the cold light of day.
How crazy and unpredictable life is. It’s like a circus—high-wire acts and people hiding behind clown masks. How little control we have, she thinks; so much is out of our hands.
