The Echo of Old Books

by Barbara Davis

They had belonged to someone who was sick and afraid, someone worried about running out of time. A woman, she was almost certain.

There’s nothing more personal than a book, especially one that’s become an important part of someone’s life.

have somehow guessed. I have no wish to become a shadow, which is what women in families like mine become: obedient, hollowed-out things who fade into the background the moment their usefulness as a bargaining chip is at an end. We see to the menus, raise the children, keep up with the latest fashions, grace our husband’s table when he entertains, and look the other way when a pretty young face turns his head.

of the relationship—parents, children, siblings, lovers—one party was always more invested than the other, more willing to hand over their power, to make themselves small, as the price for being loved. She’d always been the more willing one. With her parents and her husband.

To give a thing a name means missing it when you have to let it go.

A lie, repeated often enough, eventually became the truth.

In every wound, there is a gift. Even the self-inflicted ones.

You never forget what it feels like to have someone you love hurt you so completely—and to know they did it intentionally.