Ruth’s children were the veal, she suddenly understood. They were raised to be fattened, but never to reach a full and thriving adulthood. They’d arrived at the doorstep of life, unable to walk. Ruth used to hate them for this—hate them in a way you can only hate them because you love them—but now she saw how inevitable it was. Worse, now she saw that she was the author of their incompetence.
