You can forget who you are if you're alone too much. - Margaret Atwood

We have begun to slam doors, and to throw things. I throw my purse, an ashtray, a package of chocolate chips, which breaks on impact. We are picking up chocolate chips for days. Jon throws a glass of milk, the milk, not the glass: he knows his own strength, as I do not. He throws a box of Cheerios, unopened.
The things I throw miss, although they are worse things. The things he throws hit, but are harmless.
I begin to see how the line is crossed, between histrionics and murder.

I try not to think too much. Like other things now, thought must be rationed

I was the age at which parents suddenly transform from people who know everything into people who know nothing.