“Theo felt a lump in his throat, what the hell was all this emotion about? Gods did women feel like this all of the time, how the hell did they get anything done?”

“Fuck, she was so sick of herself-herself and her fucking emotional retardation. How did people do this shit all the time, this wanting people, caring about them? How did they stand it, how did they ever get anything done? She was sick of being lost.”

“What the hell was the matter with these people? How did they not see that of all the people on the planet, she was probably the least qualified to help them with their emotional problems? It was like asking a dog to do algebra.”

“Good God.” He felt like he’d just finished running the Boston Marathon.How did she do it? How the hell did she do all that every day, and probably a lot more? But justthe dinner, the squabbles, the mess, the sheer volume of stuff that needed to be remembered, done,handled with three kids. It was mentally and physically exhausting.Fun, he admitted, but exhausting.And she’d have to get up in the morning, get them up, dressed, fed. Then go to work. Afterwork, she’d replay—basically—what he’d just done. And with all that, she still had to maintain the houseand run a business.Did women have superpowers?Regardless, he was sending his mother flowers in the morning.”

“The books talked about it [the heart] as if it were a sump pump stuck down in the muck and mire of somebody’s backyard. Never in all my scientific reading did I encounter anything that talked about a broken heart. Never did I read anything about what the heart felt, how it felt or why it felt. Feeling and knowing weren’t important, only understanding”

“Family gatherings were... um, let's see, what's the word I'm looking for?... Hell. They were hell. Being the middle child, I served and referee and confidante, hostess and martyr. Did I feel we should get together once in a while? Sure. Did I want my family all together? Theoretically, yes. In reality, dear God, no.”