"‎Who would die for this chance to be fed this death of pleasure with spoons, in their warm homes, alone, unmoving?"

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Sometimes, she said, mostly to herself, I feel I do not know my children... It was a fleeting statement, one I didn't think she'd hold on to; after all, she had birthed us alone, diapered and fed us, helped us with homework, kissed and hugged us, poured her love into us. That she might not actually know us seemed the humblest thing a mother could admit.

— Aimee Bender