Jodi Picoult

“Are you happy, Hugh?” Annabelle asked.
He forced a laugh. “What kind of question is that?”
“I don’t know. A Parisian one. An existential one.”

She had come to the clinic because she didn’t want to be a little girl anymore. But it wasn’t having sex that made you a woman. It was having to make decisions, sometimes terrible ones. Children were told what to do. Adults made up their own minds, even when the options tore them apart.

Anti-abortion extremists are considered a domestic terrorist threat by the U.S. Department of Justice.

to run the gauntlet of protesters

When you are used to fending for yourself, being taken care of is a drug.

Having a child is a terrible risk, no matter what. You might have a healthy baby who then gets a heart condition, diabetes, addicted to opioids. You might raise a kid who gets her heart broken, who miscarries her own baby, whose husband dies fighting overseas. If we are meant to only have children who never encounter difficulty in life, then no one should be born.

Boy, she told Louie, don’t you let nobody tell you who you can’t be.

Violence, from one angle, looked like mercy from another.

Did you have to be missed to exist?

“I didn’t know about your dad. I’m sorry.”
Hugh paused in the doorway. “My dad was the greatest guy. He never touched a drop of alcohol in his life, Chief.” He inclined his head. “I was just selling hope.”