Quotes About Family

That's the thing," said Gat. "Everyone's always asking Harris about everything. Why should a grown woman have to ask her father to approve her wedding?

our family is white as far back on the family tree as I've ever looked, and I guess I picture people white white white unless someone tells me otherwise

Telling this story will be painful. In fact, I do not know if I can tell it truthfully, though I'll try. I have been a liar all my life, you see. It's not uncommon in our family.

And now he was mine and I said we should not let our love be threatened. We should not let the family fall apart. We should not accept an evil we can change. We would stand up against it, would we not? Yes. We should. We would be heroes, even.

Who killed the girls? The dragon? Or their father?

we need you' means my sisters love me, they rely on me, the admire me.

My little brother is in rehab. My little brother is in rehab. I feel like these words are written on my arms whenever I push up my sleeves, written on my cheeks whenever they relax out of my fake smile. They want to come out of my mouth, all the time. When I am called upon in class, or when someone says, "Hey, what's up?" - that's what I want to answer. "My little brother's in rehab." But I never do.

They can't beat when I'm unhappy. They try and fix it; they'd fix the whole world if they could, just to make me feel better-even when it's none of their business. It's one of the many hazards of being an only child.

WELCOME, ONCE AGAIN, to the beautiful Sinclair family. We believe in outdoor exercise. We believe that time heals. We believe, although we will not say so explicitly, in prescription drugs and the cocktail hour. We do not discuss our problems in restaurants. We do not believe in displays of distress. Our upper lips are stiff, and it is possible people are curious about us because we do not show them our hearts. It is possible that we enjoy the way people are curious about us.

I had lost my dad. I had come here to this island from a house of tears and falsehood and I saw Gat, and I saw that rose in his hand, and in that one moment, with the sunlight from the window shining in on him, the apples on the kitchen counter, the smell of wood and ocean in the air, I did call it love.

Do you still miss Gran?" I ask him as we head toward New Clairmont. "Because I miss her. We never talk about her." "A part of me died," he says. "And it was the best part.

They're doing just as I asked them to. As we Sinclairs always do. Pretending. Lying. Trying to have a good time.

what if what if we could somehow stop being the Beautiful Sinclair Family and just be a family? What if we could stop being different colors, different backgrounds, and just be in love?

For the old people in my family—Mummy, the aunties, Granddad—the accumulation of beautiful objects is a life goal. Whoever dies with the most stuff wins. Wins what? is what I'd like to know. I used to be a person who liked pretty things. Like Mummy does, like all the Sinclairs do. But that's not me anymore.

ME, JOHNNY, MIRREN, and Gat. Gat, Mirren, Johnny, and me. The family calls us four the Liars, and probably we deserve it.

Every time Gat said these things, so casual and truthful, so oblivious—my veins opened. My wrists split. I bled down my palms. I went light-headed. I'd stagger from the table or collapse in quiet shameful agony, hoping no one in the family would notice. Especially not Mummy.

It's a tiny box, Mirren. Me and Mummy. Me and my pills. Me and my pain. I don't want to live there anymore.

as if this tragedy marked the end of the family. And perhaps it did. And perhaps it did not.

I grew up with very normal, stable people," Brooke continued. "We acted normal all day long in my family. So normal I wanted to stab my eyes out. So I'm like an expert. And you? You are not normal. You should think about getting help for it, is what I'm saying.

My head and shoulders melted first, followed by my hips and knees. Before long I was a puddle, soaking into the pretty cotton prints. I drenched the quilt she never finished, rusted the metal parts of her sewing machine. I was pure liquid loss, then, for an hour or two. My grandmother, my grandmother. Gone forever, though I could smell her Chanel perfume on the fabrics.

It is not glamorous that I can't drive a car. It is not mysterious to be home on a Saturday night, reading a novel in a pile of smelly golden retrievers. However, I am not immune to the feeling of being viewed as a mystery, as a Sinclair, as part of a privileged clan of special people, and as part of a magical, important narrative, just because I am part of this clan. My mother is not immune to it, either. This is who we have been brought up to be. Sinclairs. Sinclairs.

We are liars. We are beautiful and privileged. We are cracked and broken." ? E. Lockhart, We Were Liars

I do not love my father's way of thinking, but much of it has become mine.

WELCOME TO THE beautiful Sinclair family. No one is a criminal. No one is an addict. No one is a failure.