“In fact, since the accident, Mom doesn't love anyone. She is marble. Beautiful. Frigid. Easily stained by her family. What's left of us anyway. We are corpses.At first, we sought rebirth. But resurrection devoid of her love has made us zombies. We get up every morning, skip breakfast, hurry off to work or school. For in those other places, we are more at home.And sometimes we stagger beneath the weight of grief, the immensity of aloneness.”

“Isn't it ironic . . . we ignore those who adore us, adore those who ignore us, hurt those who love us, and love those who hurt us.Every flaw he held and every perfection he flaunted made her love him even more."I hate this feeling. Like I'm here, but I'm not. Like someone cares. But they don't. Like I belong somewhere else, anywhere but here, and escape lies just past that snowy window, cool and crisp as the February air.”

“I've been alone since my mom met Scott.He sucked the nectar from her heartlike a famished butterfly. No nurture,no nourishment left for Kristina.A vacation is a poor substitutefor love.”

“Love is like that. I could crush her beneath the weight of confession.”

“Except when it comes to Mom. She is, and always has been, the driving force in this family. And sometimes that means driving us head-on, no possible change of course, into a wall.”

“Our past may shape us, but it doesn't define who we become.”

“I need to capture my sprite with trembling hands. Except I could crush her. Wonder how many small things of beauty - flowers, seashells, dragonflies - have met such a demise. Wonder how much fragile love has collapsed beneath the weight of confession.”