Go Tell the Bees that I Am Gone (Outlander, #9)

by Diana Gabaldon

“No man owns his own life,” he said. “Part of you is always in someone else’s hands. All ye can do is hope it’s mostly God’s hands you’re in.”

Meals were the daily bane of my existence; not so much the constant work of picking, cleaning, chopping, cooking—though those activities were fairly baneful in themselves—but primarily the never-ending chore of remembering what we had on hand, and balancing the effort required to make it edible against the knowledge of what might spoil if we didn’t eat it right away. Bother nutrition;

You never knew, when you took farewell of someone, whether it might be the last time. The least you could do was say you loved them—and she wished she had.

It’s just that broken things always hurt longer than you think they will.