He had looked forward to making posthumous reports to Illyan. Now he wondered if he was going to live long enough. - Lois McMaster Bujold

There is a sad disconnectedness that overcomes a library when its owner is gone.

He stared at the two bundles more than filling his lap in a kind of cosmic amazement.
“We did it,” he muttered to Ekaterin, now perching on the chair arm. “Why didn’t anybody stop us? Why aren’t there more regulations about this sort of thing? What fool in their right mind would put me in charge of a baby? Two babies?”

“Everybody has it wrong way round. Parents don’t make children—children make parents. They shape our behavior from the first wail. Mold us into what they need. It can be a pretty rough process, too.”
Jole’s eyebrows went up. “I’d not thought of it that way.” It seemed a strangely hopeful notion.
“Well, believe it. Though my whole life has been on-the-job training—I don’t know why I thought this should be any different.”