Quotes About Family

Because the child bound us together; but the link became a chain.

Family ... the home of all social evil, a charitable institution for comfortable women, an anchorage for house-fathers, and a hell for children.

This house is full of women who all want to have their say about my child.

My daughter became my enemy when she had to choose between me and you. And you, my wife, you have been my archenemy, because you never let up on me till I lay here lifeless. LAURA.

Bet vai tu zini par manu b?rn?bu? Vai tu zini, cik man bija sliktas m?jas un cik daudz ?auna es tur dab?ju iem?c?ties? Š?iet, ka tas n?k l?dzi mantojum?, no citiem augumiem, bet no k?? No pirm? auguma, t? bija rakst?ts b?rnu gr?mat?s, un liekas, ka piepild?s... T?p?c nevaino mani, tad es savuk?rt nevainošu savus vec?kus, kuri var?tu vainot sav?jos un t? joproj?m!

I saved your father from destitution, and he rewarded me with all the terrible hatred that a debt of gratitude breeds… he taught his family to speak ill of me. STUDENT

LAURA. There are some circumstances in a family which through honor and conscience one is forced to conceal from the whole world—— DOCTOR.

NURSE. There, there, there. A father has something besides his child, but a mother has nothing but her child. CAPTAIN.

LAURA. Because the mother is closer to the child, as it has been discovered that no one can tell for a certainty who the father of a child is. CAPTAIN.

LAURA. Suppose that I was prepared to bear anything, even to being despised and driven out, everything for the sake of being able to keep and control my child, and that I am truthful now when I declare that Bertha is my child, but not yours. Suppose—— CAPTAIN.

The whole time I was growing up...living in this house...Papa was like a shadow that followed you everywhere. ...It would wrap around you and lay there until you couldn't tell which one was you anymore.

Like every child, I adored her. Until I formed a brain and got to know her.

Other people sound flat to my ear; their words just hang in the air. But when my mother says something, the ends curl.

I couldn't help but think, This car is taking me to a mental hospital and my mother is treating it like open-mic night at a Greenwich Village café.

He was raised without a proper diagnosis.

My mother is from Cairo, Georgia. This makes everything she says sound like it went through a curling iron.

Although my parents never attended church or mentioned Jesus except when they screamed at each other—and then they used his full name, 'Jesus Fucking Christ

I gazed around the room and my eyes stopped dead on a little boy standing in the corner. This was a particularly eerie doll. Life-sized and blond-haired and blue-eyed. I saw a little Nazi boy, pockets probably stuffed with scissors and retractable blades. My grandfather on my mother's side was rumored to be half Jewish, which practically makes me Jerry Seinfeld's brother, and thus wary of blond German boys with their hands out of sight.

As I sat in the hot, salty water, I thought, 'No wonder Mr. Bubble always gives me a urinary tract infection and hives.' Mr. Bubble was for common people. Mr. Bubble was for my so-called brother, their true child. I was a Vanderbilt. I should bathe in condiments and seasonings.

If my mother was odd enough to crave a bubble bath at three in the morning, Dorothy was inventive enough to suggest adding broken glass to the tub. If my mother insisted on listening to West Side Story repeatedly, it was Dorothy who said, 'Let's listen to it on forty-five!' And when my mother announced that she wanted a fur wrap like Auntie Mame, Dorothy bought her an unstable Norwegian elkhound from a puppy mill.

Glen had a disability more disfiguring than a burn and more terrifying than cancer. Glen had been born on the day after Christmas. My parents just combine my birthday with Christmas, that's all, he explained. But we knew this was a lie. Glen's parents just wrapped a couple of his Christmas presents in birthday-themed wrapping paper, stuck some candles in a supermarket cake, and had a dinner of Christmas leftovers.

Normal people who weren't raised by mentally ill goats probably took the feeling of safety for granted. They only noticed when they suddenly felt unsafe. When the hands reach up for under the bed and grab their ankles, they scream, whereas I'm like "Wait, can you scratch my knee before you kill me?

Riding back from the grocery store, I realized my father was two men—one he presented to the outside world, and one, far darker, that was always there, behind the face everybody else saw. In my bedroom late that

I didn't begin life hating my grandmother. Like every child, I adored her. Until I formed a brain and got to know her.