Dark Places

projecting glumness. That was another of my mom’s words: glum. It meant having the blues in a way that annoyed other people. Having the blues aggressively.

Not fighting doesn’t mean he’s guilty, Libby, it means he’s lost hope.”

I had angry, defensive conversations in my head, got mad at things that hadn’t even happened yet.

It was surprising that you could spend hours in the middle of the night pretending things were OK, and know in thirty seconds of daylight that that simply wasn’t so.

What do I say to a man who knows how I think and still sleeps next to me with the lights off?

Half the time I look down, my hands are in fists.

Whenever I see news stories about children who were killed by their parents, I think: But how could it be? They cared enough to give this kid a name, they had a moment—at least one moment—when they sifted through all the possibilities and picked one specific name for their child, decided what they would call their baby. How could you kill something you cared enough to name?