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Jodi Picoult

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“Your son, Hamnet," she said, swallowing. "Does the loss... does it ever abate?" He stilled. She wondered how long it had been since someone spoke that name out loud to him. "It changes," he said carefully. "At times it stops pulling, like a stitch. But then I will be doing something, perhaps crossing a field where I once tossed him onto my shoulder, and I will find myself on my knees sobbing." Shakespeare cleared his throat. "They call it a loss, but that's misconstrued, is it not? They remain with us.”

“We fall back into silence. I look around XO Café and notice that chatter happens mostly at tables where the diners are young and hip. The older couples, the ones sporting wedding bands that wink with their silverware, eat without the pepper of conversation. Is it because they are so comfortable, they already know what the other is thinking? Or is it because after a certain point, there is simply nothing left to say?”

“When you lose someone you love, there is a tear in the fabric of the universe. It's the scar you feel for, the flaw you can't stop seeing. It's the tender place that won't bear weight. It's a void... When you lose someone, you see them everywhere in a hundred different ways. I will think of her when I go to an art museum, or a dog park. On a blank canvas. When I eat a buttermilk biscuit.”

“I told Seven the Bartender that true love is felonious. "Not if they're over eighteen," he said, shutting the till of the cash register. By then the bar itself had become an appendage, a second torso holding up my first. "You take someone's breath away," I stressed. "You rob them of the ability to utter a single word." I tipped the neck of the empty liquor bottle toward him. "You steal a heart." He wiped up in front of me with a dishrag. "Any judge would toss that case out on its ass." "You'd be surprised." Seven spread the rag out on the brass bar to dry. "Sounds like a misdemeanor, if you ask me." I rested my cheek on the cool, damp wood. "No way," I said. "Once you're in, it's for life.”

“It's not politically correct to say that you love one child more than you love your others. I love all of my kids, period, and they're all your favorites in different ways. But ask any parent who's been through some kind of crisis surrounding a child--a health scare, an academic snarl, an emotional problem--and we will tell you the truth. When something upends the equilibrium--when one child needs you more than the others--that imbalance becomes a black hole. You may never admit it out loud, but the one you love the most is the one who needs you more desperately than his siblings. What we really hope is that each child gets a turn. That we have deep enough reserves to be there for each of them, at different times. All this goes to hell when two of your children are pitted against each other, and both of them want you on their side.”

“My mother... she is beautiful, softened at the edges and tempered with a spine of steel. I want to grow old and be like her.”