“The casualities seemed to go on and on. Just when I thought I was done losing her, I would find yet another way to love her all over again.”

“I thought over and over about what I was going to do when Carly overdosed and died. How would we go on? And then I knew: I wouldn’t go on. And then I realized that it was just going to be too painful to actually have to watch her die. Right in front of me. My daughter was dying. That’s when I snapped.”

“Her expression turned serious. "In another life, I could love you."I watched her for a moment, staring into her glassed-over eyes. She was drunk, but just for a moment it didn't seem wrong to pretend she meant it."I might love you in this one.”

“When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time—the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes—when there's a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she's gone, forever—there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.”

“I felt I couldn't lose anything else, but just then I realized I already had: I'd lost the hope that I would ever be loved in just that way again.”

“It had never occurred to me that I could lose Amy twice, but that's what it felt like. It felt like I was losing her all over again.”