Disappointment Broken Promises Quotes

All of the things that you promised me that you'd be, now your hands are tired. And all of the things that you promised me that you'd need, now my hands are tired.

God she hated the dance. A blow to the cheek one minute and discussing a romantic getaway the next. It was the one step forward, two steps back waltz. She wanted to scream. Sitting on the side of the bed, Claire allowed herself tears and swallowed

Trust, is the stone thrown into the sea, sinking deep in all its murkiness, unable to see what it once lived and believed to be a promise.

This is the truth of the world: you can spend years devoting your time and love to someone. You can take care of them willingly and happily. You can think you know them as well as they know themselves. You can trust them entirely. But no one, absolutely no one, will ever change unless they want to, and some are incapable of change- no matter who they are, or what they meant to you. Broken people will always find a way to justify their selfish ways. There is no such thing as a promise.

Lonely's a temporary condition, a cloud that blocks out the sun for a spell and then makes the sunshine seem even brighter after it travels along. Like when you're far away from home and you miss the people you love and it seems like you're never going to see them again. But you will, and you do, and then you're not lonely anymore. Lonesome's a whole other thing. Incurable. Terminal. A hole in your heart you could drive a semi truck through. So big and so deep that no amount of money or whiskey or pussy or dope in the whole goddamn world can fill it up because you dug it yourself and you're digging it still, one lie, one disappointment, one broken promise at a time.

Far too often, the best thing I can have in my hand when someone makes a promise is a really big broom so that I can sweep up the broken pieces.

You might think lament is the opposite of praise. It isn’t. Instead, lament is a path to praise as we are led through our brokenness and disappointment.6 The space between brokenness and God’s mercy is where this song is sung. Think of lament as the transition between pain and promise. It is the path from heartbreak to hope.

The question felt more personal than professional. A father disappointed that his son had broken a promise. And in this case, a broken promise might have gotten him killed.

Instant gratification often results in long-term disappointment. The many broken promises I have made to myself have created wounds I am still discovering. Growth occurs when we confront our personal experiences and how they’ve changed us.

The disappointment, brokenness, suffering, and pain that characterize life in this present world is held in dynamic tension with the promise of future glory that is yet to come. In that Advent tension, the church lives its life.

I don't think I've ever gotten any significant thing I wanted. You have no idea how weird it is to envision things and have them come to nothing. No vision has ever come true, no promise has ever been kept. But then there was you, and you were the promise that would obliterate all the disappointments of the past. Everything about you insisted on it. Your color, your hair, the way light projects from every part of you. You were the sun that would burn away all the putrid broken promises of the world.

Was love enough? If a person could offer you nothing but broken promises and disappointment, was love enough to make up for that?

I don't expect to have a fully verified story of how Jo's disorder developed, but I don't think that historical accuracy is as important as what I call "emotional truth." People attach different levels of significance to the same events. No two participants in any event remember it in exactly the same way. A single broken promise, for example, among thousands of promises kept, might not be remembered by a parent, but may never be forgotten by the child who was disappointed. (34)

Love is knowing that your feet carry you to a painful place, and still go anyway.

We’re out.” … A round of groans passed from my new group of friends, and I smiled that they were actually disappointed we were retiring. I waved to the girls. “Don’t leave!” a few called out. “My girl needs sex. I deliver,” Lane said unabashedly. He looked at the guys, quirking his eyebrow in question. “What would you do?” All three of them, Jax, Jace, and Cole, proceeded to point toward the exit.

Somewhere in the world at that moment, there was a birth, a death, a sunrise, and a sunset. There was despair, and a burst of laughter, a promise broken, and a vow made. And there was this kiss. It was far from disappointing. CHAPTER 35 In November, Christmas came early.

It's funny how a hello is always accompanied with a goodbye. It's funny how good memories can make you cry, it's funny how forever never seems to last, it's funny how much you would lose if you forgot about your past, it's funny how friends can just leave when you're down, it's funny how when you need someone they never are around, it's funny how people change and think they're so much better, it's funny how some many lies are packed into one love letter, it's funny how one night can hold so much regret, it's funny how you can forgive but not forget, it's funny how ironic life turns out to be, but the funniest part of all, is that none of that is funny to me.

Please. I’ve promised Rosamund and Daisy. The girls will be so disappointed.” She’d promised them? Damn it. Broken promises were something he avoided at all costs. And the simplest way to avoid them was to not make any in the first place. Tonight he would give her a stern talking-to about making promises on his behalf. And perhaps a light spanking just to underscore the matter.

After generations of separations and decades of forgetfulness, the mention of the South brings back to our memories ancient years of pain and pleasure. At the turn of the twentieth century, many African Americans left the Southern towns, left the crushing prejudice and prohibition, and moved north to Chicago and New York City, west to Los Angeles and San Diego. They were drawn by the heady promise of better lives, of equality, fair play, and good old American four-star freedom. Their expectations were at once fulfilled and at the same time dashed to the ground and broken into shards of disappointment. The sense of fulfillment arose from the fact that there were chances to exchange the dull drudgery of sharecrop farming for protected work under unionized agreements. Sadly for the last thirty years, those jobs have been decreasing as industry became computerized and work was sent to foreign countries. The climate which the immigrants imagined as free of racial prejudice was found to be discriminatory in ways different from the Southern modes and possibly even more humiliating. A small percentage of highly skilled and fully educated blacks found and clung to rungs on the success ladder. Unskilled and undereducated black workers were spit out by the system like so many undigestible watermelon seeds. They began to find their lives minimalized, and their selves as persons trivialized. Many members of that early band of twentieth-century pilgrims must have yearned for the honesty of Southern landscapes where even if they were the targets of hate mongers who wanted them dead, they were at least credited with being alive. Northern whites with their public smiles of liberal acceptance and their private behavior of utter rejection wearied and angered the immigrants.

We all did as much as the Dwarfs and none more than the King.” “Tell that tale your own way for all I care,” answered Nikabrik. “But whether it was that the Horn was blown too late, or whether there was no magic in it, no help has come. You, you great clerk, you master magician, you know-all; are you still asking us to hang our hopes on Aslan and King Peter and all the rest of it?” “I must confess--I cannot deny it--that I am deeply disappointed in the results of the operation,” came the answer. (“That’ll be Doctor Cornelius,” said Trumpkin.) “To speak plainly,” said Nikabrik, “your wallet’s empty, your eggs addled, your fish uncaught, your promises broken.

My heart, which I thought had been dead, stopped. Of course. I had been betrayed. My ex boyfriend had reneged on his promise to love me, and this odious event had a name: betrayal. Somehow, knowing this calmed me down. And I began to contemplate betrayal. My conclusion? It is the most difficult of all woundings. Betrayal comes in many forms. It's not just about being cheated on or left for another. It's about any promise, overt or implied, that has been broken without your participation in the decision, or even knowing that a decision was on the table. It's about believing something that you later find out is untrue. It's no wonder that the first response to betrayal is likely to be denial. It's an enormous shock to find out that a solid reality is not so solid after all. It can feel like the most deviant form of attack. When betrayal is at the root of your pain, something horrible is unleashed. Different and perhaps more horrible than the pain of disappointment, grief, or anger. With other causes of suffering, you can at least pretend you have some measure of control. You can blame the other person for disappointing you, you can read books that outline and predict the course of grief, and when you're angry you can always fall back on self-righteousness. But when you're betrayed, you have been blindsided and your vulnerability is confirmed. You lose a misplaced innocence that you really can never regain. Your ability to trust is basically obliterated. And not just your trust in your own perceptions and your trust in the person you loved. Once you lose trust in one person, your trust in all beings is undermined, making the future seem like a giant landmine.

He could not maintain the effort to arrive on time since his lifelong habit had created the opposite habit: to elude, to avoid, to disappoint every expectation of others, every commitment, every promise, every crystallization. The magic beauty of simultaneity, to see the loved one rushing toward you at the same moment you are rushing toward him, the magic power of meeting exactly at midnight to achieve union, the illusion of one common rhythm achieved by overcoming obstacles, deserting friends, breaking other bonds —all this was soon dissolved by his laziness, by his habit of missing every moment, of never keeping his word, of living perversely in a state of chaos, of swimming more naturally in a sea of failed intentions, broken promises, and aborted wishes. The importance of rhythm in Djuna was so strong that no matter where she was, even without a watch, she sensed the approach of midnight and would climb on a bus, so instinctively and accurate that very often as she stepped of the bus the twelve loud gongs of midnight would be striking at the large station clock. This obedience to timing was her awareness of the rarity of unity between human beings.

Kenilworth, Mountainside, Scotch Plains, Dunellen... they themselves seemed far from Jersey: names out of Waverley novels, promising vistas of castles, highland waterfalls, and meadows dotted with flocks of grazing sheep. But the signboards lied, the books had lied, the Times had lied; the land here was one vast and charmless suburb, and as the bus passed through it, speeding west across the state, Freirs saw before him only the flat grey monotony of highway, broken from time to time by gas stations, roadhouses, and shopping malls that stretched away like deserts. The bus was warm, and the ride was beginning to give him a headache. He could feel the backs of his thighs sweating through his chinos. Easing himself farther into the seat, he pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The scenery disappointed him, yet it was still an improvement over what they'd just come through. Back there, on the fringes of the city, every work of man seemed to have been given over to the automobile, in an endless line of showrooms and repair shops for mufflers, fenders, carburetors, ignitions, tires, brakes. Now at last he could make out hills in the distance and extended zones of green, though here and there the nearness of some larger town or development meant a length of highway lined by construction, billboards touting banks or amusement parks, and drive-in theaters, themselves immense blank billboards, their signs proclaiming horror movies, "family pictures," soft-core porn. A speedway announced that next Wednesday was ladies' night. Food stands offered pizzaburgers, chicken in the basket, fish 'n' chips.

That's all well and good,but my concern is for Willow. I think she's beginning to realize that she both needs and wants the respect and companionship of the women in this town. And frankly, a man with your reputation can only hurt her. Not that I think you'd deliberately cause her harm. I don't. But the girl already has several black marks against her and your attentions could very well add to her problems.Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?" Rider plowed his fingers through his jet hair. "Yes, you'd like me to stay clear of her. I understand,but I'm afraid I can't do that. Look, I know it's asking a lot,but you'll have to trust me where Willow Vaughn is concerned. I promise you that she'll come to no harm from me." "Trust,Mr. Sinclair,is something to be earned." "I know,and I hope you'll give me time to earn yours. But if you want me to pack up and find another place to stay, I'll understand." She considered that a moment. "No," she finally answered. "It would serve no purpose. This town has become a haven for every outlaw in the country and if every boarding house and hotel in Tombstone emptied out the disreputables, they'd soon go broke. I doubt I'll be held accountable for housing one more. Besides, at least this way,I can keep an eye on you." Rider smiled and stood, politely helping her to her feet. "Thanks. And by the way, for what it's worth, I'm not an outlaw." "If I truly believed you were, young man, you'd know it." "I'm very sorry for any trouble I might have caused you, Mrs. Brigham. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to change my clothes and saddle the horses." Rider walked to the parlor doors, glancing back over his shoulder as Miriam added, "You've asked me to trust you,Mr. Sinclair. Don't disappoint me or I guarantee you'll be sorry. I may be a woman, and not a young one at that, but I still have a few good tricks up my sleeve. If Willow suffers so much as a broken fingernail on your account, you'll have me to answer to." Rider inclined his head and opened the door to leave. "I'll do my best, ma'am, but much depends on the young lady." Knowing he'd already said more than he should, he turned and left.

Daniel.” “Ma.” “Are you well?” She was angry. If the straight-to-voicemail treatment for the last week hadn’t tipped me off, her tone now was a dead giveaway. “I’m great,” I lied. “And how are you?” “Fine.” I laughed, silently. If she heard me laugh, she’d have my balls. “Did you get my messages?” “Yes. Thank you for calling.” I waited for a minute, for her to say more. She didn’t. “I leave you twenty-one messages, three calls a day, and that’s all you got for me?” “I’m not going to apologize for needing some time to cool off and I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Who do you think I am? Willy Wonka? You missed my birthday.” She sniffed. And these weren’t crocodile tears either. I’d hurt her feelings. Ahh, there it is. The acrid taste of guilt. “Ma . . .” “I don’t ask for a lot. I love you. I love my children. I want you to call me on my birthday.” “I know.” I was clutching my chest so my heart didn’t fall out and bleed all over the grass. “What could have been so important that you couldn’t spare a few minutes for your mother? I was so worried.” “I did call you—” “Don’t shit on a plate and tell me it’s fudge, Daniel. You called after midnight.” I hadn’t come up with a plausible lie for why I hadn’t called on her birthday, because I wasn’t a liar. I hated lying. Premeditated lying, coming up with a story ahead of time, crafting it, was Seamus’s game. If I absolutely had to lie, I subscribed to spur-of-the-moment lying; it made me less of a soulless maggot. “That’s true, Ma. But I swear I—” “Don’t you fucking swear, Daniel. Don’t you fucking do that. I raised you kids better.” “Sorry, sorry.” “What was so important, huh?” She heaved a watery sigh. “I thought you were in a ditch, dying somewhere. I had Father Matthew on standby to give you your last rights. Was your phone broken?” “No.” “Did you forget?” Her voice broke on the last word and it was like being stabbed. The worst. “No, I sw—ah, I mean, I didn’t forget.” Lie. Lying lie. Lying liar. “Then what?” I grimaced, shutting my eyes, taking a deep breath and said, “I’m married.” Silence. Complete fucking silence. I thought maybe she wasn’t even breathing. Meanwhile, in my brain: Oh. Shit. What. The. Fuck. Have. I. Done. . . . However. However, on the other hand, I was married. I am married. Not a lie. Yeah, we hadn’t had the ceremony yet, but the paperwork was filed, and legally speaking, Kat and I were married. I listened as my mom took a breath, said nothing, and then took another. “Are you pulling my leg with this?” On the plus side, she didn’t sound sad anymore. “No, no. I promise. I’m married. I—uh—was getting married.” “Wait a minute, you got married on my birthday?” Uh . . . “Uh . . .” “Daniel?” “No. We didn’t get married on your birthday.” Shit. Fuck. “We’ve been married for a month, and Kat had an emergency on Wednesday.” Technically, not lies. “That’s her name? Cat?” “Kathleen. Her name is Kathleen.” “Like your great aunt Kathleen?” Kat wasn’t a thing like my great aunt. “Yeah, the name is spelled the same.” “Last month? You got married last month?” She sounded bewildered, like she was having trouble keeping up. “Is she—is she Irish?” “No.” “Oh. That’s okay. Catholic?” Oh jeez, I really hadn’t thought this through. Maybe it was time for me to reconsider my spur-of-the-moment approach to lying and just surrender to being a soulless maggot. “No. She’s not Catholic.” “Oh.” My mom didn’t sound disappointed, just a little surprised and maybe a little worried. “Daniel, I—you were married last month and I’m only hearing about it now? How long have you known this woman?” I winced. “Two and a half years.” “Two and a half years?” she screeched...

You’ll see in time, Eliza,” he said, taking her hand in his. “This is the right way. I love you and I’ll take care of you. You are simply in shock. You’ve gone through a horrifying ordeal. You need to rest. I promise, you’ll feel much better in a few days.” He pushed off his knees, then walked around the room as Donaldson went back outside, the fire now blazing. “I came here many times after I’d found you were gone. I arranged the furniture again, as you can see, and replaced the broken glass.” He ran his fingers over the back of Father’s favorite settee. “Coming here made me feel closer to you.” Eliza moved her eyes to where he paced in front of the now roaring flames. Samuel’s brow grew pensive. “I know I said we would marry at the end of this week, but I’ve decided on tomorrow instead. I have already asked a friend of mine, Reverend Edmonton, to officiate.” “What?” Eliza found her voice in an instant, and it resonated much stronger than she expected. “But you said seven days!” Samuel spun on his heel, a determined stare possessing his features. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Eliza, but we must not postpone. We can wed tonight if you’d rather.” He winked as if she would find his eagerness amusing. “I’ve arranged for our wedding to be here. I’m sure you won’t mind. We can have a special celebration sometime afterward, with our friends and family in attendance of course.” What friends and family? “Why are you doing this?” She choked on her words, her eyes burning. He tilted his head toward the ceiling and sighed. “Because we love each other, my darling. Your mind has been temporarily clouded. After we are man and wife you will be grateful for what I’ve done for you—for us.” Her

Every day of your life, you preach some kind of gospel to yourself. My prayer is that the gospel that is preached to you through every element of the Christmas story, will be the gospel that you preach to yourself as you face the opportunities, responsibilities, temptations, danger, struggles, and blessings of your life as a child of God in this broken world. What do you preach to yourself when you are blessed? A gospel of your glory or of God’s grace? What kind of gospel do you preach to yourself when you are facing the unwanted, the unexpected, the unplanned, the disappointing, and the difficult? Do you preach a Christless gospel that leaves you feeling alone and overwhelmed, or the gospel of his presence, power, promises, and grace? When someone rejects you or mistreats you, what do you preach to yourself? When you are physically sick or feeling weak, what do you preach to yourself? When you are lacking in resources, what gospel do you preach to yourself? May the glorious gospel that is preached to you in the birth of Jesus be the gospel that you preach to yourself day after day until you are on the other side, forever with the One who was born to provide what you would never, ever be able to provide for yourself.

Love is not a permanent feeling. It’s like astatine, the most volatile element on the periodic table. Always changing and never settling. There’s no such thing as soulmates, and anyone who believes in that fairy tale is setting themselves up for disappointment. Love is a fleeting emotion, a temporary high that inevitably fades away, leaving nothing but the bitter aftertaste of broken promises and shattered dreams.

It's as if some master perfumer and necromancer had foreseen all the broken promises of your life to come, all the pangs of unrequited love and unreturned letters; the torment of watching a phone that never rings; the bright expectancy of fresh hope at breakfast, in ruins by sunset ... it was as if he took all these things and blended them into a single fragrance and called it whatever the French is for Disappointment — Désolé or Chagrin or something.

Thirty two years ago when we started dating, I asked you to be my girlfriend,when you said yes and held my hand tightly to your heart ,I looked into your eyes and made a secret promise to myself that I would never hurt you,humiliate,disrespect or disappoint you, and every single day of my life I have not broken that promise ,for you still mean the world to me,I love you with all my heart and soul,through the good and the bad times I never stopped supporting,admiring you, and being loved and taken care of by you was the best gift ever.I will love you forever,no matter what. Mark Leggio,in,The Mending Journey ( A Diary Of Hurts )

February 18 Jesus Wept When Jesus saw her weeping and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled.… Jesus wept. —John 11:33, 35 Jesus knew what He was going to do. He had already announced to the disciples that Lazarus would be raised from the dead. He was on His way to the tomb to fulfill His plan. It was one of the final pieces of the picture that would show conclusively that Jesus was the Messiah, the Promised One. The suffering and death that is part of the human condition, the injustice and inequity that some must bear, the inadequacy of even our best love to be enough in this world—these realities overwhelm us all at times. In the midst of his work, on his way to bringing triumph out of tragedy, our God feels the pain of our suffering. Nothing pierces a parent’s heart as deeply as the broken-hearted sobs of their precious child. Even when we know their tears will dry and life will go on, even when we have it in our power to relieve their sadness, we feel their pain because we love them so. At the place where our hearts are joined with theirs is the spot of our greatest tenderness and vulnerability. Jesus did not weep out of frustration or disappointment at others’ lack of faith in Him. He did not weep for the inadequacy of the human condition. He wept because, to be with us in our pain and confusion, to cry with us in our overwhelming sorrow, to experience our deepest grief as if it were His own—that is a part of Him.

History, Truman knew, is not a fairy tale. It is more often tragic than comic, full of broken hearts and broken promises, disappointed hopes and dreams delayed. But progress is possible. Hope is sustaining. Fear can be overcome. What follows is the story of how we have endured moments of madness and of injustice, giving the better angels of which Lincoln spoke on the eve of the Civil War a chance to prevail—and how we can again.

No vision has ever come true, no promise has ever been kept. But then there was you, and you were the promise that would obliterate all of the disappointments of the past. Everything about you insisted on it. Your color, your hair, the way light projects from every part of you. You were the sun that would burn away sponge putrid broken promises of the world.

I suppose that loudmouthed bastard told you more than was necessary.' 'You voted against me,' she said, her cold voice belying the crack in her chest. 'You have done nothing to prove you are able to handle such a terrible power,' Amren said with equal iciness. 'On that barge, you told me as much when you walked away from any attempt at mastering it. I offered to teach you more, and you walked away.' 'I walked away because you chose my sister.' Just as Elain had done. Amren had been her friend, her ally, and yet in the end, it hadn't mattered one bit. She'd picked Feyre. 'I didn't choose anyone, you stupid girl,' Amren snapped. 'I told you that Feyre had requested you and I work together again, and you somehow twist that into me siding with her?' Nesta said nothing. 'I told them to leave you alone for months. I refused to speak about you with them. And then the moment I realised my behaviour was not helping you, that maybe your sister was right, I somehow betrayed you?' Nesta shook. 'You know how I feel about Feyre.' 'Yes, poor Nesta, with a younger sister who loves her so dearly she's willing to do anything to get her help.' Nesta blocked out the memory of Tamlin in his beast form, how she had wanted to rip him limb from limb. She was no better than him, in the end. 'Feyre doesn't have me.' She didn't deserve Feyre's love. Just as Tamlin hadn't. Amren barked out a laugh. 'That you believe Feyre doesn't only proves you're unworthy of your power. Anyone that willingly blind cannot be trusted. You would be a walking nightmare with those weapons.' 'It's different now.' The words rang hollow. Was it any different? Was she any different that she'd been this summer, when she and Amren had fought on the barge, and Amren's utter disappointment in her failure to be anything had surfaced at last? Amren smiled, as if she knew that, too. 'You can train as hard as you want, fuck Cassian as often as you want, but it isn't going to fix what's broken if you don't start reflecting.' 'Don't preach at me.. You-' She pointed at Amren, and could have sworn the female stepped out of the line of fire. Just as Tamlin had done. As if Amren also remembered that the last time Nesta had pointed at an enemy, it had ended with his severed head in her hands. A joyless laugh broke from her. 'You think I'd mark you with a death-promise?' 'You nearly did with Tamlin the other day.' So Cassian had told them all about that, too. 'But I'll say to you again what I said on that barge. I think you have powers that you still do not understand, respect, or control.' 'How dare you assume you know what is best for me?' When Amren didn't answer, Nesta hissed, 'You were my friend.' Amren's teeth flashed. 'Was I? I don't think you know what that word means.' Her chest ached, as if that invisible fist had punched her once again. Steps thudded beyond the shattered door, and she braced for Cassian to come roaring in- But it was Feyre.

He could not maintain the effort to arrive on time since his lifelong habit had created the opposite habit: to elude, to avoid, to disappoint every expectation of others, every commitment, every promise, every crystallization. The magic beauty of simultaneity, to see the loved one rushing toward you at the same moment you are rushing toward him, the magic power of meeting exactly at midnight to achieve union, the illusion of one common rhythm achieved by overcoming obstacles, deserting friends, breaking other bonds —all this was soon dissolved by his laziness, by his habit of missing every moment, of never keeping his word, of living perversely in a state of chaos, of swimming more naturally in a sea of failed intentions, broken promises, and aborted wishes. The importance of rhythm in Djuna was so strong that no matter where she was, even without a watch, she sensed the approach of midnight and would climb on a bus, so instinctively and accurate that every often as she stepped of the bus the twelve loud gongs of midnight would be striking at the large station clock. This obedience to timing was her awareness of the rarity of unity between human beings.

To be betrayed means someone didn’t live up to their end of the bargain. That bargain may have been assumed or explicit. Either way, promises are broken every day; ignoring this fact is the reason the broken promise stings so much. Expectations are the key ingredients in disappointment; the less you expect from others, the less they can let you down.

Can I talk you into sharing a snack with me while we watch a movie or something for a bit? I know you need to go to bed soon, but I’d love to spend some time with you first. I promise to keep my hands to myself.” Stepping back, Kayla shook her head with mock disappointment. “I was going to say yes… but then you blew it with the hands thing.

For many years, my greatest enemy has been myself. Every mistake, every miscalculation, every stumble I made has been replayed again and again in my mind. Every broken promise, every day wasted, every goal not reached has compounded the disgust I feel for the lack of achievement in my life. My dismay has developed a paralyzing grip. When I disappoint myself, I respond with inaction and become more disappointed. I realize today that it is impossible to fight an enemy living in my head. By forgiving myself, I erase the doubts, fears, and frustration that have kept my past in the present. From this day forward, my history will cease to control my destiny. I have forgiven myself. My life has just begun.

Give Me Love” was a hit around the same time as Cat Stevens’s “Morning Has Broken,” a superficially similar hippie-dad prayer, yet I violently hated “Morning Has Broken,” just hated it, despised the choked sobs and prissy whispers, still hate it, because it sounded to my ears (and might still sound, if I had the stomach to investigate) like a phony version of what “Give Me Love” does for real. All four Beatles were surrogate dads to Seventies kids, which partly why we fantasized about them so much, and if George was the dad who’s perpetually disappointed in you, “Give Me Love” is a song that did and still does make me fantasize about what a world fathered and raised by George might look like. Yet it’s the kind of song George distrusted—a song that could get people’s hopes up, making promises he was scared he couldn’t keep.

He nodded toward her house. “Can I talk you into sharing a snack with me while we watch a movie or something for a bit? I know you need to go to bed soon, but I’d love to spend some time with you first. I promise to keep my hands to myself.” Stepping back, she shook her head with mock disappointment. “I was going to say yes… but then you blew it with the hands thing.” He chuckled. “And if I promise not to keep my hands to myself?” Crossing to the back door, she opened it and offered him a dramatic bow. “Step inside, my dear sir.” Those soft, full lips of his stretching in a smile, he did as ordered.

Bee. Listen to Lant and the Fool. Obey them. They will get you to safety.” “But Fitz—” Beloved said in a broken voice. “There’s no time to argue. Keep your promise to me!” My father’s voice was the harshest I’d ever heard it. Beloved’s gasp sounded like a sob. “Papa,” I said. I held to the cuff of his sleeve. “You promised me! You said you’d never leave me again!” “I’m sorry, Bee.” He looked at all of us. “I’m sorry. Get inside. Hurry.” But at the last moment he reached over and set his hand on my head. I do not think he knew what would happen. The touch broke our walls. I felt him. I felt his disappointment in himself. He did not feel he deserved anything from me. Not to touch me or even to say that he loved me, for he had failed so badly at being my father. It stunned me. It was like a second wall beyond his Skill-walls, something that prevented him from believing that anyone could love him. Wolf-Father spoke to both of us. You would not feel so terrible if you had not loved her so recklessly. Without limits. Be proud of our cub. She fought. She killed. She stayed alive. I felt Wolf-Father leap to my father. I heard his parting words. Run, cub. We stand and fight like cornered wolves. Follow the Scentless One. He is part of us. Protect each other. Kill for him, if need be. As the wolf went to him, I felt the surge of joy that linked those two. They would stand and fight, not just for me, but because it was what they loved to do. What they had always loved to do. My father stood a bit straighter. They both looked at me from his eyes. Puzzlement and pride. And love of me. It poured out of my father, as uncontrollable as the blood seeping from his wound. It drenched and filled me. He lifted his hand from my head. Did he know how he had revealed himself? Did he understand that Wolf-Father had been with me, all those days, and now returned to him? Almost gently, he peeled my grip from his cuff. He spoke. “Please Lant. Take Bee. Take the Fool, take all of them. Get them safely home. It’s the best thing you can do for me. Hurry!” He gave me the softest of pushes. Away from him. He turned away from us, as if confident that we would obey. He turned and began to limp away. “Why?” I shouted at him. I was too angry to cry, I thought, but tears came anyway. “Bee, I’m leaving a blood trail that a child could follow. Per saw guards coming, searching rooms as they come. I will be sure they find me before they find you. Now follow Lant.” He sounded terribly tired and sad. I looked back at the way we had come. His bloody footprints were plain on the once-clean floor. He was right, and that only made me angrier. Lant stood by the open door. “Per, Spark, take them in. I’m staying with Fitz.” “No, Lant, you won’t! I need you with them, to be a sword to protect them and use your strength to barricade that door.” Beloved didn’t move. “I can’t do this,” he said in a very soft voice. My father rounded on him. “You promised!” he roared. He seized the front of Beloved’s shirt and pulled him close. “You promised me. You said you would choose her life over mine.” “Not like this,” Beloved wailed. “Not like this!” Abruptly my father seized him in a hug. He held him tight as he spoke “We don’t get to choose how it happens. Only that you save her, not me. Now go!” He pushed him away. “All of you, go!” He turned and limped away from us. His hand left bloody prints on the wall, and his footprints were red on the white floor. He didn’t look back.

History, Truman knew, is not a fairy tale. It is more often tragic than comic, full of broken hearts and broken promises, disappointed hopes and dreams delayed. But progress is possible. Hope is sustaining. Fear can be overcome.

The words felt full of presage and foolishness. He knew he shouldn’t make promises. He was setting himself and Yasmin up for disappointment. The poor woman was broken enough already. Yet it was those shards, the pieces of her heart, that cut into his own broken covenant of faith and made those words bleed from his mouth.

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