“This morning you looked at me and told me that the privilege of living in your house cost three thousand dollars a month.

You told me I couldn’t afford the corner of a room.”

It was worth saying plainly, because it was the truest thing about him, and I had come to understand it only slowly.

Imelda was cruel in the open, honest cruelty, the kind that announces itself.

She had slid a paper across a table and told me to my face that I was beneath her son.

I did not respect it, but I could see it clearly, and clarity is its own small mercy.