Books like Chesapeake Blue

The summer my father bought the bear, none of us was born — we weren’t even conceived: not Frank, the oldest; not Franny, the loudest; not me, the next; and not the youngest of us, Lilly and Egg. My father and mother were hometown kids who knew each other all their lives, but their “union,” as Frank always called it, hadn’t taken place when Father bought the bear.

You’re not asking too much,“ he said. ”You were just asking the wrong person. Ask me instead.

Can’t nobody tell me nothing I don’t already know. At least not when it comes to my kids. They all grown, but in a whole lotta ways they still act like children. I know I get on their nerves—but they get on mine, too—and they always accusing me of meddling in their business, but, hell I’m their mother. It’s my job to meddle. What I really do is worry. About all four of ‘em. Out loud. If I didn’t love ‘em, I wouldn’t care two cents about what they did or be the least bit concerned about what happens to ‘em. But I do. Most of the time they can’t see what they doing, so I just tell ‘em what I see.

Stars flickered around us, sweet darkness sweeping in. As if we were the only souls in a galaxy.

“Don’t be rude, Bernard.” She looked prim and he folded his napkin and pushed back his chair. Eating dinner with her always gave him stomach pains. “Where are you going? You haven’t been excused.” As though he were still five years old. He hated coming home sometimes. And then he felt guilty for hating it. And then he got mad at her for making him feel guilty for hating it. . . .

So many people these days, it seemed, believed that these things (personal fulfillment and self-esteem) could come only from work, not from parenting, and many people believed that having children had nothing to do with raising them.