“I still don’t know anything about them,” she reminds me. “But you know all about mine.”
“I know only that your father was an abusive bastard and your mother died.”
“Committed suicide,” she corrects firmly, as though acknowledging it has been a big step in her healing process. “I actually… I admitted as much to Isla the other night. I still wonder if that was the right thing to do.”
“I don’t believe in shielding children from harsh realities. The sooner you realize the world is an ugly place, the sooner you can prepare yourself to fight for your way in it.”
She nods, like she sees the wisdom in that but wishes it were any other way. I’ve never seen the point in wishing for something like that, though. Life is what it is. You either shape it how you want, or you let the weight crush you
