Why, then, did I always feel as if his happiness was my responsibility? It wasn't fair for him to burden me with that. It had never been fair.
... afraid of everything because nothing truly terrible had happened to me, yet.
To live for oneself is a terrifying prospect; there is comfort in martyrdom...
p 364
Were we women always destined to appear as we were not, as long as we were standing next to our husbands?
Would my son love me, when he was old enough to know what love meant?
p 181
But oh my dear, I am tired of being Alice in Wonderland. Does it sound ungrateful? It is. Only I do get tired.
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