“She did understand, or at least she understood that she was supposed to understand. She understood, and said nothing about it, and prayed for the power to forgive, and did forgive. But he can't have found living with her forgiveness all that easy. Breakfast in a haze of forgiveness: coffee with forgiveness, porridge with forgiveness, forgiveness on the buttered toast. He would have been helpless against it, for how can you repudiate something that is never spoken? She resented, too, the nurse, or the many nurses, who had attended my father in the various hospitals. She wished him to owe his recovery to her alone—to her care, to her tireless devotion. That is the other side of selflessness: its tyranny.”

“Did she say anything before she died?" he asked."Yes," the surgeon said. "She said, 'Forgive him'""Forgive him?" my father asked."I think she was referring to the drunk driver who killed her."Wow.My grandmother's last act on earth was a call for forgiveness, love and tolerance.She wanted us to forgive Gerald, the dumb-ass Spokane Indian alcoholic who ran her over and killed her.I think My Dad wanted to go find Gerald and beat him to death.I think my mother would have helped him.I think I would have helped him, too.But my grandmother wanted us to forgive her murderer.Even dead, she was a better person than us.”

“A woman can forgive a man for the harm he does her...but she can never forgive him for the sacrifices he makes on her account.”

“Dance with her, and she will forgive much. Dance well, and she will forgive anything.”

“He gave her an indulgent look. "I'll forgive these rash words for now." She sputtered, "Forgive? Let's talk about who should be forgiving who.""Whom," he corrected."Shut up! I'm in the right here. Remember all those things you did to me?”

“And she would weep. When he saw tears rolling down her face, he would forgive her.She was less certain whether she would forgive herself.”