It is not that love blinds us to the facts.

It is that love makes us unwilling to finish the sentence the facts are writing.

I saw every clue.

I simply refused, for as long as I possibly could, to let them add up to what they added up to.

The forensic accountant in me had solved the case long before the mother in me would permit the verdict.

That gap, between knowing and admitting, is where so much of the pain of my life has lived.

I had all the patterns.