Family Isn't Blood Quotes

Family isn't blood. It's the people who love you. The people who have your back.

Blood is thicker than water, but family isn’t just about blood. Family is about faith, and loyalty, and who you love. If you don’t have those things, I don’t care what the blood says. You’re not family.

Family isn't blood," she said bitterly, continuing to back away. "Family is who loves you, who takes care of you.

Family isn't about the blood you share. It's about the people willing to bleed for you." ---Maris - Born of Fury

that family isn’t blood. It’s the people who love you. The people who have your back.

Home isn't a place. It's not having a bed to come home to, or a yard, or a Christmas tree at the holidays. Home is the people who love you.

Family isn’t always the one you’re born into. Sometimes it’s about people who get into your blood, inside your heart, and under your skin all on their own.

Your family, your real family, will always welcome you home with open arms. Anyone who says you can lose their love isn't really family, no matter what blood says.

Being Southern isn't talking with an accent...or rocking on a porch while drinking sweet tea, or knowing how to tell a good story. It's how you're brought up -- with Southerners, family (blood kin or not) is sacred; you respect others and are polite nearly to a fault; you always know your place but are fierce about your beliefs. And food along with college football -- is darn near a religion.

Family isn't who we live with but those we would die for.

...it isn’t things and proximity, or even blood that holds us all together. What makes a family is love and loyalty.

Family isn’t always blood, and it isn’t contained in a single tree. It’s a forest.

Family isn't blood, necessarily; it's a thousand little choices we make every day. We choose to trust each other and forgive each other and go to the pasta place for dinner even though some of us would rather eat sushi.

Family isn’t always blood. It’s the people in your life who want you in theirs; the ones who accept you for who you are. The ones who would do anything to see you smile and who Love you, no matter what…

The Frays had never been a religiously observant family, but Clary loved Fifth Avenue at Christmas time. The air smelled like sweet roasted chestnuts, and the window displays sparkled with silver and blue, green and red. This year there were fat round crystal snowflakes attached to each lamppost, sending back the winter sunlight in shafts of gold. Not to mention the huge tree at Rockefeller Center. It threw its shadow across them as she and Simon draped themselves over the gate at the side of the skating rink, watching tourists fall down as they tried to navigate the ice. Clary had a hot chocolate wrapped in her hands, the warmth spreading through her body. She felt almost normal—this, coming to Fifth to see the window displays and the tree, had been a winter tradition for her and Simon for as long as she could remember. “Feels like old times, doesn’t it?” he said, echoing her thoughts as he propped his chin on his folded arms. She chanced a sideways look at him. He was wearing a black topcoat and scarf that emphasized the winter pallor of his skin. His eyes were shadowed, indicating that he hadn’t fed on blood recently. He looked like what he was—a hungry, tired vampire. Well, she thought. Almost like old times. “More people to buy presents for,” she said. “Plus, the always traumatic what-to-buy-someone-for-the-first-Christmas-after-you’ve-started-dating question.” “What to get the Shadowhunter who has everything,” Simon said with a grin. “Jace mostly likes weapons,” Clary sighed. “He likes books, but they have a huge library at the Institute. He likes classical music …” She brightened. Simon was a musician; even though his band was terrible, and was always changing their name—currently they were Lethal Soufflé—he did have training. “What would you give someone who likes to play the piano?” “A piano.” “Simon.” “A really huge metronome that could also double as a weapon?” Clary sighed, exasperated. “Sheet music. Rachmaninoff is tough stuff, but he likes a challenge.” “Now you’re talking. I’m going to see if there’s a music store around here.” Clary, done with her hot chocolate, tossed the cup into a nearby trash can and pulled her phone out. “What about you? What are you giving Isabelle?” “I have absolutely no idea,” Simon said. They had started heading toward the avenue, where a steady stream of pedestrians gawking at the windows clogged the streets. “Oh, come on. Isabelle’s easy.” “That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.” Simon’s brows drew together. “I think. I’m not sure. We haven’t discussed it. The relationship, I mean.” “You really have to DTR, Simon.” “What?” “Define the relationship. What it is, where it’s going. Are you boyfriend and girlfriend, just having fun, ‘it’s complicated,’ or what? When’s she going to tell her parents? Are you allowed to see other people?” Simon blanched. “What? Seriously?” “Seriously. In the meantime—perfume!” Clary grabbed Simon by the back of his coat and hauled him into a cosmetics store that had once been a bank. It was massive on the inside, with rows of gleaming bottles everywhere. “And something unusual,” she said, heading for the fragrance area. “Isabelle isn’t going to want to smell like everyone else. She’s going to want to smell like figs, or vetiver, or—” “Figs? Figs have a smell?” Simon looked horrified; Clary was about to laugh at him when her phone buzzed. It was her mother. where are you? It’s an emergency.

Family isn’t always blood. It’s the people in your life who want you in theirs. The ones who accept you for who you are. The ones who would do anything to see you smile, and who love you no matter what.

Sometimes family isn’t made by blood, Mrs. Whitt. Sometimes it’s a choice,

Family isn’t blood—it’s who has your back.

Family isn’t just about who shares your blood. It’s about who bleeds for you

Éibhear isn’t my friend. He’s kin. A blood relation.” “Which means what exactly?” “To a Cadwaladr, it means that if I have good cause, I could beat the scales off his back and get away with it.

Just look at how they’ve treated you. And you still think you owe them? One day you’ll realise family isn’t about whose blood runs in your veins, it’s who you’d spill it for.

One day you’ll realize family isn’t about whose blood runs in your veins, it’s who you’d spill it for.

Missing people is hard. Letting new people inside is harder. But the reward for making that effort was greater than I could have imagined. Family isn't always blood, and it isn't contained in a single tree. It's a forest.

We realise that when a person speaks, when he presents an argument or an analysis, it isn’t just the person alone who is speaking, but also his earlier history, class, family, blood-group, economic and social status, education and experience.

Family isn't always blood, baby," he said, I was lucky enough to have a woman take me as her child and teach me what family really is. We didnt have much, but we had each other.

that family isn’t blood. It’s the people who love you. The people who have your back.

Family isn’t who you share blood with but who will bleed for you. It’s the people who love you through your tragedies and stick around.

Family isn’t only blood.

Family isn't just about whose blood runs through your veins. It's about who never left your side, stood up for you, and believed in you.

Family isn’t always about blood. Sometimes you just recognize someone. That’s how it was with your gran and me. We were kin. A special kind of kin.

I’ll have to learn what you did: that family isn’t blood. It’s the people who love you. The people who have your back. Like the Lightwoods did for you.

Murder isn’t our way. Some impure families will split a man from sternum to scrotum to grant a single pure wish. Once, we did too. Our ancestors believed in that sort of blood. It took twenty-five of them to move this house.

Family isn’t about blood, Mia. It’s about who you surround yourself with, who makes you feel loved and safe.

I’m starting to realize that family isn’t always blood…it’s the people who are there for you when no one else is.

Family isn’t just a social construct, you know darling, it is formed in the heart. It’s instinctive, this feeling of belonging to someone whose absence keeps you incomplete. . .

Family isn’t blood or the right series of letters, Sy. It has to be something a hell of a lot stronger than that.

What defines a family isn’t blood but the secrets they share.

No one gets to choose their family. And most of the time, your true family isn’t the people you’re related to by blood. Family sometimes just sort of … happens.

Family isn’t who we live with but those we would die for.

Family comes in many shapes and forms. It’s a single mom that happily gives up the things she wants or needs in order to provide that extra special something for her child. It’s the single father that’s trying to be a mother and father to his kids. It’s the parents that were never able to have children of their own and adopt a child. Family doesn’t show prejudice based on race, age or sex. Family isn’t only defined by blood; it’s defined by love. Something that Lily and I have in leaps and bounds. Family's what we make it, what we want it to be.

They all knew this was coming. They all knew war would reach into the pools of kinship between countless people and gut the innards of it like emptying out a pumpkin. So many seeds torn away and crushed into nothing; seeds of friendship, seeds of romance, seeds of family. All of them planted and ruined in various stages, left with nothing but growing pains and, worse than that, the pain of absent growth altogether. War is cruel. It's cancerous. The end of the world is always tied to war, isn't it? Maybe this is why; because war is so much more than just war. It goes beyond bullets and blood and bodies. War comes in like a flood, like a disease, and it claims anyone who comes in contact with it. Even the living can't get free from it; they're as claimed as the dead are. Once war touches them, they're branded to their last breath. In this world, most people have been branded for a lot longer than they stepped on their first battlefield.

Sometimes, there’s no running, no fighting. Sometimes, bad shit happens. The bad shit changes you. You can’t look at the world the same. You realize that manners, morals, culture, society, friends, and family are all fake. They’re ideas we cling to, to make existence bearable. When that’s ripped away — the fake optimistic bullshit — the only thing you have left is survival. Survival is messy. Survival has no morals or kindness. Survival isn’t black and white, good versus evil. Survival is shades of red; it’s blood taken and blood lost. My survival was a gun, liquor was my sustenance, and rough sex was my painkiller.

Family is all you have, but it isn’t found only in a blood connection. Family shows itself in the unlikeliest of moments: the split-second glances, a gesture, the hand next to yours when you need it the most.

Family isn’t always blood. Sometimes, it’s the people we choose to walk beside. And that has always been you, brother.” My throat constricted as I struggled to swallow. “Love you, man.” “Love you, too. Brother for life.

Perspective - Use It or Lose It. If you turned to this page, you're forgetting that what is going on around you is not reality. Think about that. Remember where you came from, where you're going, and why you created the mess you got yourself into in the first place. You are led through your lifetime by the inner learning creature, the playful spiritual being that is your real self. Don't turn away from possible futures before you're certain you don't have anything to learn from them. Learning is finding out what you already know. Doing is demonstrating that you know it. Teaching is reminding others that they know just as well as you. You are all learners, doers, and teachers. Your only obligation in any lifetime is to be true to yourself. Being true to anyone else or anything else is not only impossible, but the mark of a false messiah. Your conscience is the measure of the honesty of your selfishness. Listen to it carefully. The simplest questions are the most profound. Where were you born? Where is your home? Where are you going? What are you doing? Think about these once in awhile, and watch your answers change. Your friends will know you better in the first minute you meet than your acquaintances will know you in a thousand years. The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other's life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof. There is no such thing as a problem without a gift for you in its hands. You seek problems because you need their gifts. Imagine the universe beautiful and just and perfect. Then be sure of one thing: The Is has imagined it quite a bit better than you have. The original sin is to limit the Is. Don't. A cloud does not know why it moves in just such a direction and at such a speed, it feels an impulsion....this is the place to go now. But the sky knows the reason and the patterns behind all clouds, and you will know, too, when you lift yourself high enough to see beyond horizons. You are never given a wish without being given the power to make it true. You may have to work for it, however. Argue for your limitations, and sure enough, they're yours. If you will practice being fictional for a while, you will understand that fictional characters are sometimes more real than people with bodies and heartbeats. The world is your exercise-book, the pages on which you do your sums. It is not reality, although you can express reality there if you wish. You are also free to write nonsense, or lies, or to tear the pages. Every person, all the events of your life, are there because you have drawn them there. What you choose to do with them is up to you. In order to live free and happily, you must sacrifice boredom. It is not always an easy sacrifice. The best way to avoid responsibility is to say, "I've got responsibilities." The truth you speak has no past and no future. It is, and that's all it needs to be. Here is a test to find whether your mission on earth is finished: If you're alive, it isn't. Don't be dismayed at good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends. The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly. You're going to die a horrible death, remember. It's all good training, and you'll enjoy it more if you keep the facts in mind. Take your dying with some seriousness, however. Laughing on the way to your execution it not generally understood by less advanced lifeforms, and they'll call you crazy. Everything above may be wrong!

But the history of Hopkins Hospital certainly isn’t pristine when it comes to black patients. In 1969, a Hopkins researcher used blood samples from more than 7,000 neighborhood children—most of them from poor black families—to look for a genetic predisposition to criminal behavior. The researcher didn’t get consent. The American Civil Liberties Union filed suit claiming the study violated the boys’ civil rights and breached confidentiality of doctor-patient relationships by releasing results to state and juvenile courts. The study was halted, then resumed a few months later using consent forms. And in the late nineties, two women sued Hopkins, claiming that its researchers had knowingly exposed their children to lead, and hadn’t promptly informed them when blood tests revealed that their children had elevated lead levels—even when one developed lead poisoning. The research was part of a study examining lead abatement methods, and all families involved were black. The researchers had treated several homes to varying degrees, then encouraged landlords to rent those homes to families with children so they could then monitor the children’s lead levels. Initially, the case was dismissed. On appeal, one judge compared the study to Southam’s HeLa injections, the Tuskegee study, and Nazi research, and the case eventually settled out of court. The Department of Health and Human Services launched an investigation and concluded that the study’s consent forms “failed to provide an adequate description” of the different levels of lead abatement in the homes.

[F]amily isn't about who is related to you by blood. It's about who will be there for you even when it is not easy to be. It's about who will be happy when you are happy. And it's about people who will be willing to put your needs before theirs, knowing that you will do the same for them.

there is no line of delineation between good friends and good family, and that circle of people around you is the wheel supporting your wheelbarrow and the baggage you carry in it. Family isn’t defined by blood any more than a person is defined by the color of his or her skin. Unconditional support parallels unconditional love and grace. Fortunate is the man or woman who has a large circle of family and close friends.

Blood is blood, though. He’s still family.” I shake my head. “No, blood isn’t family. Blood is just a liquid, like water or honey. It’s not special.” “You really think that?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “You don’t? Your uncle is trying to sell out the orchard that’s been in your family for generations,” I remind him. “I never said family was necessarily good,” he says. “Just that it exists.” “Not because of randomly shared DNA, though. It’s more than that. It has to be.

Money depends on the scarcity of what props it up for its value, but isn’t that also an illusion? Rare and precious metals like diamonds are controlled by blood merchants who modulate their flow to keep the value at an acceptable level. And if gold is so rare, how are there enough gold bars to build a home for a family of two in Fort Knox alone? It doesn’t help that all things are constantly devalued. Before Gutenberg made type movable, only the wealthiest could afford books, and a Bible with tooled leather cover, gold-edged pages, and jewel-encrusted bindings was a symbol of not just piety but status, wealth, and taste. Within a few generations, the rabble were able to follow along in the hymnals from the cheap seats, forcing the wealthy to find another symbol to lord over the hoi polloi. ’Twas ever thus. The battle between the rich man and the poor man is fought on many battlefields, not all of them immediately obvious. Today the wealthy dress in sweatsuits and the homeless have iPhones. People with no discernible income buy flawless knockoff watches with one-letter misspellings to thwart copyright. And then wealthy people buy the same “Rulex” so their six-figure real watches won’t get stolen when they are out at dinner.

I know my family's faults more, better, than anyone. But I . . . I'm still one of them, Morty. I might hate them sometimes - more often than not, even - but they're still mine. My blood. This isn't just about me. I have to factor their best interests in, too." "Like hell you do," he shot back, rounding on me. "The very last thing you have to do in this life is pander to toxic people. Keep catering to them even as they do their very best to damage you, keep you small and controlled. Caged in the box they built for you. You can certainly choose to do that, but, Nina, listen - this is not you. It's not who you are, what you stand for. From everything I've seen pf you, I know you're better than this. Stronger, wiser. So much kinder and more compassionate.

Come inside." Shelby tilted her head just enough to rest it briefly on his shoulder as they walked to the door. "I'm relying on your word that I'll walk out again in one piece at the end of the weekend." He only grinned. "I told you my stand on playing the mediator." "Thanks a lot." She glanced up at the door, noting the heavy brass crest that served as a door knocker. The MacGregor lion stared coolly at her with its Gaelic motto over its crowned head. "Your father isn't one to hide his light under a bushel,is he?" "Let's just say he has a strong sense of family pride." Alan lifted the knocker, then let it fall heavily against the thick door. Shelby imagined the sound would vibrate into every nook and cranny in the house. "The Clan MacGregor," Alan began in a low rolling burr, "is one of the few permitted to use the crown in their crest.Good blood. Strong stock.

Last night I watched the television news. I shouldn't do that, it's bad for the digestion. There's another war somewhere, what they call a minor one, though of course it isn't minor for anyone who happens to get caught in it. They have a generic look to them, these wars - the men in camouflage gear with scarves over their mouths and noses, the drifts of smoke, the gutted buildings, the broken, weeping civilians. Endless mothers, carrying limp children, their faces splotched with blood; endless bewildered old men. They cart the young men off and murder them, intending to forestall revenge, as the Greeks did at Troy. Hitler's excuse too for killing Jewish babies, as I recall. The wars break out and die down, but then there's a flareup elsewhere. Houses cracked open like eggs, their contents torched or stolen or stomped vindictively underfoot; refugees strafed from airplanes. In a million cellars the bewildered royal family faces the firing squad; the gems sewn into their corsets will not save them. Herod's troops patrol a thousand streets; just next door, Napoleon makes off with the silverware. In the wake of the invasion, any invasion, the ditches fill up with raped women. To be fair, raped men as well. Raped children, raped dogs and cats. Things can get out of control.

Phoebe left a note asking me to go through our family genealogy books to see if we had any Scottish ancestors. She found none on your mother's side at all, and she said you'd be disappointed if there were none on Father's side." Surprised and touched by both sisters' concern, Keir shook his head with a smile. "Dinna worry about that, Seraphina. I decided 'tis enough to be Scottish in my heart." "Still, you wouldn't mind if I told you we have some Scottish blood, would you?" she asked, her eyes twinkling. "Because I've discovered that we do in fact have a Scot in our family tree! It's been overlooked because he's not in our direct line. I had to trace the connection through some female ancestors instead of going only through the male lineage. But we are very clearly indisputably descended from a Scot who was our great-great-great-great-great... well, let's say eighteen-times-great... grandfather. And just see who it is!" Seraphina unfolded the parchment, which was inscribed with a long vertical chart of connected names. And at the top- ROBERT I King of Scots "Robert the Bruce?" Keir could feel his heart expanding in his chest. "Yes," Seraphina said gleefully, leaping up and bouncing on her heels. Keir stood, laughing, and bent to kiss her cheek. "One drop of Robert the Bruce's blood will do the job. I could no' be happier. Thank you, sister." He tried to hand the chart back to her, but she shook her head. "Keep that if you like. Isn't it wonderful news? I have to go tell Ivo we're Scottish!" She left the room triumphantly.

Amy, listen to me.  Listen to me.  Don't you ever let them tell you you're ugly!  Don't ever let them tell you you're dirty.  You're a beautiful person, inside and out, thoughtful, sensitive and kind.  I don't care what Sylvanus says, or what anyone else thinks.  You'll find yourself a nice man to marry someday, and if your family's trying to convince you otherwise, it's only because they have an unpaid servant in you and they don't want to lose you." He heard what sounded like a gulp, then a sniffle. "Amy?" "I — I'm sorry, Ch-Charles.  No one's ever said anything like that to me before, and . . . and I j-just don't know what to make of it —" "Oh, God, don't cry.  I don't know how to deal with tearful females, truly I don't." "I c-can't help it, you're being so nice to me, saying that I'm beautiful when really, I'm not, and — "You are beautiful, Amy, and don't you ever forget it." "You can't say that, you've never even seen me!" "Come here." "I am here." "Come closer, then, and let me judge the issue for myself." She did. "Now, place my hands on your face." Sniffling, she took his hands within her own.  Or tried to, given that hers were half the size of his and dainty as a bird's foot. And then she raised them to her face, placing one on each hot, tearstained cheek. The minute he felt her flesh beneath his, Charles knew this was a mistake.  A big mistake.  But to stop now would crush her. "Ah, Amy.  How can you think you're ugly?  Your skin is so soft that it feels like roses after a morning rain." "It's too dark.  Bronzy.  Not at all the color of Ophelia's and Mildred's." "And who says skin has to be milk-white to be beautiful?" "Well . . . no one, I guess." He gently pressed his thumbs against her cheeks, noting that they were hot with blush, soft as thistledown, and that the delicate bones beneath were high and prominent.  "And look at these cheekbones!  I know women — aristocratic women, mind you — who'd kill for cheekbones like these.  High cheekbones are a mark of great beauty, you know." "High cheekbones are a mark of Indian blood." "Amy." "Yes?" "Stop it." "I'm sorry." He continued on, now tracing the curve of her brow, and the bridge of her nose.  He had lost his eyesight, but it was amazing what his hands could see. "You have a lovely nose," he said. "It's too strong." "No it isn't.  Close your eyes." She did.  He could feel the fragile veneer of her eyelids, trembling faintly beneath his fingertips, and long, long lashes that brushed those cheekbones he had so admired. "What color are your eyes, Amy?" "Brown." "What color brown?  Brown like conkers?  Brown like nutmeg?  Brown like black?" "Brown like mud." "Can you think of a more flattering word?" "No." His hands moved out over her face, learning its shape, before touching the plaited, pinned-up mass of her hair.  It was straight, he could tell that much.  Shiny like glass, as soft as a fern.  He wished it was down. Good God, man, whatever are you thinking?! "My hair's brown, too," Amy said, her voice now a tremulous, barely audible whisper. "Brown like mud?" he cajoled. "No.  Brown like black.  And when the sun comes out, it's got reddish undertones." "It sounds very pretty." "It's not, really.  It's just hair." "Just hair.  Do you ever wear it down?" "No." "Why not?" "It gets in the way of things." "Don't you think that someday, a man will wish to drag his fingers through all this hair?" "No . . . no respectable man." He shook his head, his heart aching for her.  "Oh, Amy." He

Some think Grom felt the pull toward Nalia," Toraf says softly. "Maybe it's a family trait." "Well, there's where you're wrong, Toraf. I'm not supposed to feel the pull toward Emma. She belongs to Grom. He's firstborn, third generation Triton. And she's clearly of Poseidon." Galen runs his hand through his hair. "I think that if Grom were her mate, he would have found Emma somehow instead of you." "That's what you get for thinking. I didn't find Emma. Dr. Milligan did." "Okay, answer me this," Toraf says, shaking a finger at Galen. "You're twenty years old. Why haven't you sifted for a mate?" Galen blinks. He's never thought of it, actually. Not even when Toraf asked for Rayna. Shouldn't that have reminded him of his own single status? He shakes his head. He's letting Toraf's gossip get to him. He shrugs. "I've just been busy. It's not like I don't want to, if that's what you're saying." "With who?" "What?" "Name someone, Galen. The first female that comes to mind." He tries to block out her name, her face. But he doesn't stop it in time. Emma. He cringes. It's just that we've been talking about her so much, she's naturally the freshest on my mind, he tells himself. "There isn't anyone yet. But I'm sure there would be if I spent more time at home." "Right. And why is that you're always away? Maybe you're searching for something and don't even know it." "I'm away because I'm watching the humans, as is my responsibility, you might remember. You also might remember they're the real reason our kingdoms are divided. If they never set that mine, none of this would have happened. And we both know it will happen again." "Come on, Galen. If you can't tell me, who can you tell?" "I don't know what you're talking about. And I don't think you do either." "I understand if you don't want to talk about it. I wouldn't want to talk about it either. Finding my special mate and then turning her over to my own brother. Knowing that she's mating with him on the islands, holding him close-" Galen lands a clean hook to Toraf's nose and blood spurts on his bare chest. Toraf falls back and holds his nostrils shut. Then he laughs. "I guess I know who taught Rayna how to hit." Galen massages his temples. "Sorry. I don't know where that came from. I told you I was frustrated." Toraf laughs. "You're so blind, minnow. I just hope you open your eye before it's too late." Galen scoffs. "Stop vomiting superstition at me. I told you. I'm just frustrated. There's nothing more to it than that." Toraf cocks his head to the side, snorts some blood back into is nasal cavity. "So the humans followed you around, made you feel uncomfortable?" "That's what I just said, isn't it?" Toraf nods thoughtfully. Then he says, "Imagine how Emma must feel then." "What?" "Think about it. The humans followed you around a building and it made you uncomfortable. You followed Emma across the big land. Then Rachel makes sure you have every class with her. Then when she tries to get away, you chase her. Seems to me you're scaring her off." "Kind of like what you're doing to Rayna." "Huh. Didn't think of that." "Idiot," Galen mutters. But there is some truth to Toraf's observation. Maybe Emma feels smothered. And she's obviouisly still mourning Chloe. Maybe he has to take it slow with Emma. if he can earn her trust, maybe she'll open up to him about her gift, about her past. But the question is, how much time does she need? Grom's reluctance to mate will be overruled by his obligation to produce an heir. And that heir needs tom come from Emma.

Where else in dramatic literature is there such a treatment of the life-and-death cycle of people and political change? One needs to reach back to the chronicles of Shakespeare, back to the Greeks. Larry Kramer isn't Sophocles and he isn't Shakespeare; we don't have Sophocleses or Shakespeares, not these days, but we do have, on rare occasion, remarkable accomplishment, and Kramer's is remarkable, invaluable, and rare. How else to dramatise revolution accurately, truthfully, politically, than by showing it to be tragic as well as triumphant? And on the other hand, if the medical, biological, political, and familial failures of "Destiny" produce, by the play's end, despair again; if we are plunged back into night, it cannot be different from the night with which "Normal Heart" began, rife with despair and terror, and pregnant with an offstage potential for transformation, for hope. Failure awaits any political movement, even a spectacularly successful movement such as the one Larry Kramer helped to spark and organise. Political movements, liberation movements, revolutions, are as subject to time, decline, mortality, tragedy, as any human enterprise, or any human being. Death waits for every living thing, no matter how vital or brilliant its accomplishment; death waits for people and for their best and worst efforts as well.politics is a living thing, and living things die. The mistake is to imagine otherwise, to believe that progress doesn't generate as many new problems as it generates blessings, to imagine, foolishly, that the struggle can be won decisively, finally, definitively. No matter what any struggle accomplishes, time, life, death bring in their changes, and new oppressions are always forming from the ashes of the old. The fight for justice, for a better world, for civil rights or access to medicine, is a never-ending fight, at least as far as we have to see. the full blooded description of this truth, the recognition and dramatisation of a political cycle of birth, death, rebirth, defeat, renewal - this is true tragedy, in which absolute loss and devastation, Nothing is arrived at, and from this Nothing, something new is born.

lived in the house. There were aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and friends. A grill was set up on the patio, and delicious smells wafted from platters of burgers on picnic tables in the yard. It was the perfect sort of day for Munchy to get her fill of people blood. Who would have thought that giving a person one tiny bite could result in such a delightful snack? Munchy was aware that most people thought she was a pest. They tried to swat her whenever she got near, but Munchy was fast and an expert at dodging humans’ flailing fingers. I don’t want to hurt anyone, Munchy thought. But a mosquito bite just takes a second, and then I fly off to find the next person. Satisfied at last, Munchy buzzed back to the garden where she lived with her best friends Wiggly Worm, Rattles Snake, and Snarky Snail. “I’m full!” she announced. “I don’t think I’ll eat for a week!” “There’s some kind of celebration going on over there,” remarked Wiggly, who was playing in the dirt. “I know!” smiled Munchy. “The family has so many guests over—so many guests with delicious blood.” Snarky made a face. “I think it’s the Fourth of July or something—but, Munchy, do you really have to do that to people? Mosquito bites make them awfully uncomfortable.” “Only for a second,” Munchy replied. “It’s just an itty-bitty sting.” “No, it isn’t,” protested Snarky, who ventured into the backyard more than any of his friends. “Mosquito bites are itchy and uncomfortable for a long time—sometimes several days. I’ve seen those two little kids scratching and complaining about bites you’ve given them.” “I think that’s true,” agreed Rattles, who also went into the yard more often, now that the humans knew he was a friendly rattlesnake. “Oh, no,” murmured Munchy. Mosquito bites hadn’t seemed like a big deal before—but they did now. She didn’t want to be responsible for making people feel itchy all the time! With a sigh, Munchy said, “I guess I’ve got to quit. From now on, I’ll stick to sugar-water shakes at the Garden Town soda fountain—but it isn’t going to be easy!” With some help from her friends, Munchy was able to stop biting people once and for all. And, when the other mosquitoes that lived in the garden heard about her new lifestyle, they decided to give it a shot, as well. In no time, the backyard was practically a mosquito-safe zone! The kids and their friends could now play in the yard for hours with no worries about being bitten. They had no more itchy skin and no more discomfort. Munchy felt like she had done a wonderful thing. And no one ever tried to swat her away again! Just for Fun Activity Make itty-bitty bugs using circles of Fun Foam for bodies, tissue paper cut-outs for wings, googly eyes (you can find them at craft stores), and shortened pipe cleaners for long, skinny noses and legs. Have fun!

Montreal October 1704 Temperature 55 degrees Eben was looking at Sarah in the way every girl prays some boy will one day look at her. “I will marry you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I will be a good husband. A Puritan husband. Who will one day take us both back home.” Wind shifted the lace of Sarah’s gown and the auburn of one loose curl. “I love you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I’ve always loved you.” Tears came to Sarah’s eyes: she who had not wept over her own family. She stood as if it had not occurred to her that she could be loved; that an English boy could adore her. “Oh, Eben!” she whispered. “Oh, yes, oh, thank you, I will marry you. But will they let us, Eben? We will need permission.” “I’ll ask my father,” said Eben. “I’ll ask Father Meriel.” They were not touching. They were yearning to touch, they were leaning forward, but they were holding back. Because it is wrong? wondered Mercy. Or because they know they will never get permission? “My French family will put up a terrible fuss,” said Sarah anxiously. “Pierre might even summon his fellow officers and do something violent.” Eben grinned. “Not if I have Huron warriors behind me.” The Indians rather enjoyed being French allies one day and difficult neighbors the next. Lorette Indians might find this a fine way to stab a French soldier in the back without drawing blood. They would need Father Meriel. He could arrange anything if he chose; he had power among all the peoples. But he might say no, and so might Eben’s Indian family. Mercy translated what was going on for Nistenha and Snow Walker. “They want to get married,” she told them. “Isn’t it wonderful?” She couldn’t help laughing from the joy and the terror of it. Ransom would no longer be the first word in Sarah’s heart. Eben would be. Mercy said, “Eben asked her right here in the street, Snow Walker. He wants to save her from marriage to a French soldier she doesn’t want. He’s loved Sarah since the march.” The two Indians had no reaction. For a moment Mercy thought she must have spoken to them in English. Nistenha turned to walk away and Snow Walker turned with her. If Nistenha was not interested in Sarah and Eben’s plight, no Indian would be. Mercy called on her memory of every speech in every ceremony, every dignified phrase and powerful word. “Honored mother,” she said softly. “Honored sister. We are in need and we beg you to hear our petition.” Nistenha stopped walking, turned back and stared at her in amazement. Sarah and Eben and Snow Walker stared at her in amazement. Sam can build canoes, thought Mercy. I can make a speech. “This woman my sister and this man my brother wish to spend their lives together. My brother will need the generous permission of his Indian father. Already we know that my sister will be refused the permission of her French owners. We will need an ally to support us in our request. We will need your strength and your wisdom. We beseech you, Mother, that you stand by us and help us.” The city of Montreal swirled around them. Eben, property of an Indian father in Lorette; Sarah, property of a French family in Montreal; and Mercy, property of Tannhahorens, awaited her answer. “Your words fill me with pride, Munnunock,” said Nistenha softly. She reached into her shopping bundle. Slowly she drew out a fine French china cup, undoubtedly meant for the feast of Flying Legs. She held it for a moment, and then her stern face softened and she gave it to Eben. Indians sealed a promise with a gift. She would help them. From her bundle, Snow Walker took dangling silver earrings she must have bought for Mercy and handed them to Sarah. Because she knew that Sarah’s Mohawk was not good enough and that Eben was too stirred to speak, Mercy gave the flowery thanks required after such gifts. “God bless us,” she said to Sarah and Eben, and Eben said, “He has.

Funny what one's willing to do for family, isn't it?' Fan said, pulse pounding like a jackrabbit's. 'I take no pleasure in saying this, but we aren't as different as I thought.' 'Don't be so fucking sentimental,' I told him, and the blood was already flowing when Thom shouted.

Family isn't about the blood you share. It's about the people willing to bleed for you.

Love is funny that way, isn’t it? You think it comes with all these guarantees, all these failsafes—especially with family. With blood. But in reality, ‘should’ has nothing to do with it.

You don’t really want her around forever?” Ginny asked Ron incredulously. When he merely shrugged, she said, “Well, Mum’s going to put a stop to it if she can, I bet you anything.” “How’s she going to manage that?” asked Harry. “She keeps trying to get Tonks round for dinner. I think she’s hoping Bill will fall for Tonks instead. I hope he does, I’d much rather have her in the family.” “Yeah, that’ll work,” said Ron sarcastically. “Listen, no bloke in his right mind’s going to fancy Tonks when Fleur’s around. I mean, Tonks is okay-looking when she isn’t doing stupid things to her hair and her nose, but —” “She’s a damn sight nicer than Phlegm,” said Ginny. “And she’s more intelligent, she’s an Auror!” said Hermione from the corner. “Fleur’s not stupid, she was good enough

Family isn’t always blood. It’s the people in your life who want you in theirs, the ones who accept you for who you are. The ones who would do anything to see you smile and who love you no matter what.” ~ Anonymous

Family isn’t just about who shares your blood. It’s about who bleeds for you. Needs you. And I’m fucking done allowing anything else to matter.

Family isn’t always about blood, though, is it?

I set a fast pace back towards the House and their footsteps followed close behind me, punctuated with hissed fragments of conversation as they tried to figure out what to do. As we closed in on the glass building, the boy declared that he was going to seek out Darcy and left us, his feet hitting the path at a thumping pace as he ran. I ignored them both and kept going all the way back to the House, taking the stairs two at a time before striding through the common room. I received several curious glances as we passed but most people had headed to their rooms already and the look I threw the others was enough to stop them from taking photographs or asking questions. I made it to my bedroom door before Sofia caught up to me again and she was even brave enough to grab my arm to halt me. “What?” I asked, lacing my voice with a bit of threat. Sofia blanched at my tone but didn’t back down and I found myself equally surprised and impressed by the devotion of this nothing little Fae to the girl in my arms. “Why are you taking her to your room?” she demanded. “I’ve got her bag right here with her key and-” “And while she’s in this state she could lose control again and burn the whole House down,” I replied. “I’ll have to stay with her tonight until she sleeps off the alcohol you watched her consume.” There was more than a hint of accusation in my tone but the girl didn’t even flinch this time. “And that’s all you’re going to do?” Sofia demanded. “You’re not going to play some trick on her or hurt her or...” She didn’t finish that accusation but her gaze flickered to the point where my hand was gripping Roxy’s bare thigh as I held her. “I’m not a fucking rapist,” I snapped. “I can have any girl I want in my bed any night of the week, why would I want to molest an unconscious one who hates me?” Sofia backed off instantly, seeming satisfied by whatever she’d seen in my eyes as her shoulders sagged a little. “Okay, I didn’t mean to imply...just...look after her,” she said, frowning at Roxy again with concern as she passed me her bag and backed up. I made to turn away from her then an idea occurred to me. “Wait…Sofia, right?” I asked, trying to sound vaguely friendly. It wasn’t something I attempted often and the frown she gave me said I was terrible at it. “Yes…” “I er, have this… cousin. Third cousin actually, who just emerged as a Pegasus…” “Good for her. Why are you telling me this?” she asked suspiciously. “It’s a him. He’s called…Phillip.” “Phillip?” She looked at me like no one in the world was actually called Phillip and I had to admit I’d never met one. Dammit. Why did I pick that fucking name? “Yeah. Well, as you can imagine in a family of pure blooded Dragons, Phillip isn’t coping so well with the shame of-” “Shame of what?” she asked, a clear challenge in her eyes for me to dare to finish that sentence. And in hindsight implying her Order was shameful probably wasn’t the best way to get her to help me. I shifted Roxy in my arms and sighed, wondering if I should just abandon this idea. But this girl had impressed me tonight despite her weakness and I didn’t really have anyone else to ask so I barrelled on. “I’ll level with you. Me calling your Order shameful is about the closest to a compliment he’d get from a member of my family on the subject. He’s been locked in his house, hidden away from the world, his father has actually considered killing him to conceal his true nature. He’s…alone. And he could really use someone of his Order to talk to…” My throat felt tight, I didn’t know if this was a terrible idea but Xavier had sounded so broken on the phone earlier, so desperate, I just wanted to try and help him. And maybe having another Pegasus to talk to would help him see some good in what he was. (Darius POV)

He stared at me for a long moment as if he was trying to figure me out and I dropped my eyes before he could. I didn’t want Darius Acrux in my head. My attention snagged on a deep red stain on the sleeve of his pristine white shirt and I pointed it out. “Are you bleeding?” I asked. “No,” he replied forcefully before looking down at the offending stain and waving his hand to clear it away with his water magic. “Well that was obviously blood so-” “I said no, just drop it,” he snarled. I flinched back but he didn’t release me and my heart started beating faster. He sighed heavily and shook his head before letting me go. “Sorry, I just... I’m not bleeding now. It’s not an issue.” “Okay...” I took a step back, wondering why I was even talking to him. This was the guy who had tormented me for weeks and he was clearly going to snap right back into asshole mode after tonight. But something about this nice version of Darius kept drawing me in despite my reservations. “Come on, let’s catch up with the others and get back to the Academy,” he urged, offering me his arm again. The anger which had risen in him a moment ago seemed to have gone so I tentatively accepted his arm and we started walking down the driveway and away from his family. “Careful,” I teased. “Someone might think we don’t even hate each other if you don’t release me soon.” We made it to the edge of the pooling light which lit up the front of his house and he drew me into the darkness beyond it. “I never said I hated you,” he murmured, his voice deep as he tugged me around to face him. I looked up at his striking face, the moonlight highlighting his strong jaw and pulling my attention to his mouth for a moment. “Well I really feel sorry for anyone you do hate,” I muttered, pulling my arm out of his grip. He resisted for a moment like he wanted to keep hold of me but gave in when I tugged a little harder. “The things I’ve done to you... you know it isn’t personal, right?” he asked. I looked up at him for several long seconds, wondering if he seriously bought into that horse shit or if it was just what he was trying to sell me. I wasn’t really sure what I saw there but I definitely didn’t buy his excuses. “Is that how you justify it to yourself?” I asked bitterly, our little bubble of peace well and truly burst now that we were standing in the cold air of the night. Darius hesitated and I gave him an eye roll dramatic enough to fell a small tree. I turned away from him, looking for Orion and the stardust which would take us back to the Academy but his fingers curled around my wrist before I could escape. “Do you hate me, then?” he asked quietly and for some strange reason it sounded like the idea of that didn’t sit well with him. I forced myself to reply in a steady tone, holding his eye as I spoke. “No,” I said and a glimmer of relief spilled through his eyes, almost halting me there but I wasn’t quite so blinded by him as to give him a free pass for all his bullshit. “To hate you, I’d have to care about you. And I don’t give one shit about you,” I said coldly. I shook his hand off of me for the second time and stalked away towards Darcy and Orion. He didn’t follow me and I was glad. Because I had the horrible feeling that that might just have been a lie.(toy)

Family isn’t made of blood, love. It’s made of the ones you choose to hold around you.

Those people marching in San Francisco aren't perverts, they’re citizens, and their own are dying in an epidemic that's killed more people than were killed in the war he and I fought in. And the government isn't lifting a finger to help. Why? Because they're gay and I guess to some that means they're not people. But when we got in a war, they told us that we were fighting to defend the freedoms that we have. They didn't tell us we were only fighting for the people who agreed with whatever the hell our politics were. You know, I saw a lot of young men die in that war. I held more than a few young men who were dying in my arms. And some of them were not much older than you. They died, their blood soaking into my uniform, their lips chattering in the hot rain of the jungle. They didn't get to die in their own country. They died on a soil that wasn't theirs. And they died with a question in their eyes. They'd been men no more than an hour, and they'd died in the arms of another soldier who was the only family they had. Hell, they should have been home playing basketball or kissing their girlfriends or their boyfriends, kissing anybody they loved. I know a lot of us who've fought in our country's wars are looked on as heroes. But I know who I am—and I'm no hero. I don't need to be a hero to be a man.

Blood isn’t what makes family; it’s being there for them, it’s sticking around. It’s loving someone even when they don’t feel like they deserve to be loved.

He says the bite marks on the torso aren’t consistent with sobek teeth. This person was already dead when they were dumped into the Istros. The sobek must have seen an easy meal and hauled it down to its lair to eat later.” She swallowed the dryness in her mouth and again looked at the body. A dryad female. Her chest cavity had been ripped open, heart and internal organs removed, and bite marks peppered— “These wounds look like the ones you got from the kristallos. And the mer’s lab figured this body was probably five days old, judging by the level of decay.” “The night we were attacked.” Bryce studied the analysis. “There was clear venom in the wounds. Tharion says he could feel it inside the corpse even before the mer did tests on it.” Most of those in the House of Many Waters could sense what flowed in someone’s body—illnesses and weaknesses and, apparently, venom. “But when they tested it …” She blew out a breath. “It negated magic.” It had to be the kristallos. Bryce cringed, reading on, “He looked into records of all unidentified bodies the mer found in the past couple years. They found two with identical wounds and this clear venom right around the time of …” She swallowed. “Around when Danika and the pack died. A dryad and a fox shifter male. Both reported missing. This month, they’ve found five with these marks and the venom. All reported missing, but a few weeks after the fact.” “So they’re people who might not have had many close friends or family,” Hunt said. “Maybe.” Bryce again studied the photograph. Made herself look at the wounds. Silence fell, interrupted only by the distant sounds of Lehabah’s show downstairs. She said quietly, “That’s not the creature that killed Danika.” Hunt ran a hand through his hair. “There might have been multiple kristallos—” “No,” she insisted, setting down the papers. “The kristallos isn’t what killed Danika.” Hunt’s brow furrowed. “You were on the scene, though. You saw it.” “I saw it in the hall, not in the apartment. Danika, the pack, and the other three recent victims were in piles.” She could barely stand to say it, to think about it again.

Hope and Fear Are Inseparable.” ― Francois De La Rochefoucau Ludlum There is some good in this world, and it's worth fighting for. - J.R.R. Tolkien “For in the day of trouble he will keep me safe in his dwelling; he will hide me in the shelter of his sacred tent and set me high upon a rock. ― Psalms Twenty Seven : Five “ You will never forget a person who came to you with a torch in the dark.” ― Unknown “Everyone is a moon and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.” ― Mark Twain “The battle between good and evil is endlessly fascinating because we are participants every day.”― Mark Twain “Family isn’t always blood, It's the people in your life who want you in theirs; the ones who accept you for who you are. The ones who would do anything to see you smile and who love you no matter what. “ ― Maya Angelo “In spite of the shame, in spite of the sleepless nights, I'm coping. I'm not pretending it wasn't real. I'm not playing games in my mind. I wouldn't go back to the way I was, naive. I'm a different person now. I know I'm courageous, and without blame. I’ve realized I have it in me to stand up against this horror. — ADC "For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." ― Jeremiah Twenty-Nine: Eleven “The universe doesn’t give you what you ask for with your thoughts - it gives you what you demand with your actions.” ― Steve Maraboli Hoo-hoo-hoo, go on, take the money and run, Go on, take the money and run! - Steve Miller Band “What separates us from the other killers, is we only kill bad people.”― Vigilante and “Some people just need killing.” ― Barry Eisler “In real life, the hardest aspect of the battle between good and evil is determining which is which.” ― George R. R. Martin “Wherever there is abuse there is also corruption. Politics, philosophy, theology, science, industry, any field with the potential to affect the well-being of others can be destroyed by abuse or saved by good will.” ― Criss Jami “True life is lived when tiny changes occur." ― Leo “You do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life, really? It is a vapor that appears for a little time, and then vanishes away” ― James Four: Fourteen “In a controversy the instant we feel anger we have already ceased striving for the truth, and have begun striving for ourselves.” Buddha

Just look at how they’ve treated you. And you still think you owe them? One day you’ll realize family isn’t about whose blood runs in your veins, it’s who you’d spill it for.

Family isn’t only about blood. It’s about finding the people who get you. Who you can call in a pinch. Who want to help you succeed and thrive at everything you do.

I take it that means the ten years of life experience I have more than you isn’t a problem?

They say a man who wants revenge should dig two graves—that the harm to your soul isn’t worth the final outcome. I called bullshit. I hadn’t experienced a more rewarding, euphoric high in my life

What a lovely family you have, brother,” he said. “Domestic perfection.” “I still don’t know why you’re here,” I said. “Don’t you?” Brian said. “Wasn’t I obvious?” “Painfully obvious,” I said. “But not at all clear.” “Is it so hard to believe that I want to belong to a family?” he said. “Yes.” He cocked his head to the side and looked at me with perfect emptiness. “But isn’t that what brought us together the first time?” he said. “Isn’t it completely natural?” “It might be,” I said. “But we’re not.” “Alas, too true,” he said with his usual melodramatic flair. “But nevertheless, I found myself thinking about it. About you. My only blood relative.” “As far as we know,” I said, and to my surprise I heard him say the same words at the same time, and he smiled broadly as he realized it, too.

Ohana isn’t just your blood, Tess. It’s the family you choose for yourself. Family isn’t just the people who made you; it’s the people who love you.

God is not a robot. He isn’t a comptroller of an accounting company trying to make things add up or work out. He is a being full of deep emotion, longing, and memories of what it used to be like. The incarnation therefore isn’t about an equation but about remembering what home used to be like and making a plan to get back there. Consider this reboot of the Genesis creation account. It may help you see God’s emotion a little better. First off, nothing … but God. No light, no time, no substance, no matter. Second off, God says the word and WHAP! Stuff everywhere! The cosmos in chaos: no shape, no form, no function—just darkness … total. And floating above it all, God’s Holy Spirit, ready to play. Day one: Then God’s voice booms out, “Lights!” and, from nowhere, light floods the skies and “night” is swept off the scene. God gives it the big thumbs up, calls it “day”. Day two: God says, “I want a dome—call it ‘sky’—right there between the waters above and below.” And it happens. Day three: God says, “Too much water! We need something to walk on, a huge lump of it—call it ‘land’. Let the ‘sea’ lick its edges.” God smiles, says, “Now we’ve got us some definition. But it’s too plain! It needs colour! Vegetation! Loads of it. A million shades. Now!” And the earth goes wild with trees, bushes, plants, flowers and fungi. “Now give it a growth permit.” Seeds appear in every one. “Yesss!” says God. Day four: “We need a schedule: let’s have a ‘sun’ for the day, a ‘moon’ for the night; I want ‘seasons’, ‘years’; and give us ‘stars’, masses of stars—think of a number, add a trillion, then times it by the number of trees and we’re getting there: we’re talking huge! Day five: “OK, animals: amoeba, crustaceans, insects, fish, amphibians, reptiles, birds, mammals … I want the whole caboodle teeming with a million varieties of each—and let’s have some fun with the shapes, sizes, colours, textures!” God tells them all, “You’ve got a growth permit—use it!” He sits back and smiles, says, “Result!” Day six: Then God says, “Let’s make people—like us, but human, with flesh and blood, skin and bone. Give them the job of caretakers of the vegetation, game wardens of all the animals.” So God makes people, like him, but human. He makes male and female.… He smiles at them and gives them their job description: “Make babies! Be parents, grandparents, great-grandparents—fill the earth with your families and run the planet well. You’ve got all the plants to eat from, so have all the animals—plenty for all. Enjoy.” God looks at everything he’s made, and says, “Fantastic. I love it!” Day seven: Job done—the cosmos and the earth complete. God takes a bit of well-earned R&R and just enjoys. He makes an announcement: “Let’s keep this day of the week special, a day off—battery-recharge day: Rest Day.”2 I’m not normally a paraphrase guy, but we always read the creation story like a textbook. I love this rendition because it captures the enthusiastic emotion that God felt about everything He created, especially humans. He loved it all. He loved us. Most of all, He loved the way things were.

There’s not a lot to say. I feel bad for him, but know there’s nothing I can do. If anyone in that house was tortured, it was him. He hated who he was, and what he had become; he honestly didn’t see a way to get out of it, though. He has very dark eyes, but they’re really descriptive. It wasn’t hard to see how the years in the gang tormented him every day. All I’ve wanted for him was for that torture to go away.” “Like he said in the letter, sometimes they don’t have a choice, Rachel. I don’t know why he was in it in the first place, but sometimes you’re recruited whether you want to be or not. Sometimes it’s about your blood family, and sometimes it’s because of a crime you’ve done. But to get out, Rach, it’s practically impossible to get out.” I stilled against his chest, and he hurried to continue. “I’m not telling you to upset you more. I’m just letting you know he was probably living the way he was in order to stay alive. From what you’ve told me, and from his letter, I’m sure you’re right, sweetheart. I’m sure he’s not a bad person deep down.” “He really isn’t,” I unnecessarily argued in Trent’s defense. Kash’s lips pressed down against my head, and he kept them there as he said, “I know. How could he be? He kept you safe and was trying to bring you back to me.” I

Why won’t you give up this silly idea of homesteading?” Gertrude went on. Her tone of voice was moderate, but her blue eyes were snapping. “I can’t help thinking you’re just being stubborn, Lily. Caleb is well able to provide for you, I assure you. He comes from one of the finest families in Pennsylvania—I’ve known the Hallidays a long time.” Lily looked down at the floor for a moment, gathering her courage. “You wouldn’t understand,” she said softly. Gertrude sighed. “Do sit down,” she told Lily kindly, taking a chair herself. “Now what is it that I would find so difficult to understand?” “I love Caleb very much,” Lily began in a shaky voice, “but I’m not the woman for him.” Mrs. Tibbet raised her eyebrows. “Oh? And why not?” Lily leaned forward in her chair and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think I may be like my mother.” “How so?” Mrs. Tibbet asked, smoothing her skirts. “She was—she drank. And there were men. Lots of men.” “Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Tibbet seriously. “And you drink?” Lily swallowed. “Well—no.” “Then there are men.” “Only Caleb,” Lily said quietly. “But he can make me do and say the most shameful things. I’m so afraid it’s because I’m—er—hot-blooded.” Mrs. Tibbet looked as though she might be trying to suppress a smile. “You wouldn’t be the first girl who’d given herself to a man before marriage, Lily. It isn’t a wise course of action, but it happens often enough.” Lily drew in a deep breath. “I suppose the drinking would come later,” she said, discounting Mrs. Tibbet’s remarks as mere kindness. “And then the men. No, I’m sure I’m better off going on with my life just as I’ve planned.” There was a rap at the door, and then Velvet put her head inside. “Pardon, missus, but dinner’s ready, and the men say they’re going to eat without you if you don’t hurry.” “We’ll be there in a moment,” Mrs. Tibbet answered. “And tell the men that if they don’t wait, they’ll have me to deal with.” “Yes, ma’am,” Velvet replied with a hint of laughter in her voice. The door closed with a click. Mrs. Tibbet turned back to her guest. “If you were my own daughter, Lily, I would tell you the same thing. You couldn’t do better than Caleb Halliday if you searched the world over for a man. Don’t throw away a chance at real happiness—it might be the only one you get.” Lily pushed herself out of her chair and went to stand at the window. From there she could see the moon rising above the roof of the house next door; it looked as though it had just squeezed out of the chimney. “Sometimes I think I know what I want. I’ll decide that I want to marry Caleb and forget all about having a homestead. But then I remember what Mama was like.” “Lily, you’re not your mother.” “No,” Lily agreed sadly, turning to face Mrs. Tibbet, her hands clasped in front of her. “But Mama was young and happy once, and she must have thought she was in love with my father. She married him, she had his children. And then something changed, and she began to drink. Papa went away—I don’t even remember him—and the men started coming around, one after the other …” Gertrude came to take Lily’s hands in her own. “Things will be different for you,” she said quietly. “You’re strong, and so is Caleb. Oh, Lily, don’t be afraid to take a chance.” At that moment the colonel thundered from the hallway that he was going to have his supper right then whether the women cared to come to the table or not, and Lily smiled. “I promise I’ll think things through very carefully, Mrs. Tibbet.” “Don’t take too long,” Gertrude answered, ushering her toward the door of the study. “Fate can take the strangest twists and turns, sealing us off from someone when we least expect it.” At

So you’ve run off from him, have you?” Beatrix asked, smoothing the wiry ruff on his head. “Naughty boy. I suppose you’ve had a fine old time chasing rabbits and squirrels. And there’s a damaging rumor about a missing chicken. You had better stay out of poultry yards, or it won’t go well for you in Stony Cross. Shall I take you home, boy? He’s probably looking for you. He--” She stopped at the sound of something…someone…moving through the thicket. Albert turned his head and let out a happy bark, bounding toward the approaching figure. Beatrix was slow to lift her head. She struggled to moderate her breathing, and tried to calm the frantic stutters of her heart. She was aware of the dog bounding joyfully back to her, tongue dangling. He glanced back at his master as if to convey Look what I found! Letting out a slow breath, Beatrix looked up at the man who had stopped approximately three yards away. Christopher. It seemed the entire world stopped. Beatrix tried to compare the man standing before her with the cavalier rake he had once been. But it seemed impossible that he could be the same person. No longer a god descending from Olympus…now a warrior hardened by bitter experience. His complexion was a deep mixture of gold and copper, as if he had been slowly steeped in sun. The dark wheaten locks of his hair had been cut in efficiently short layers. His face was impassive, but something volatile was contained in the stillness. How bleak he looked. How alone. She wanted to run to him. She wanted to touch him. The effort of standing motionless caused her muscles to tremble in protest. She heard herself speak in a voice that wasn’t quite steady. “Welcome home, Captain Phelan.” He was silent, staring at her without apparent recognition. Dear Lord, those eyes…frost and fire, his gaze burning through her awareness. “I’m Beatrix Hathaway,” she managed to say. “My family--” “I remember you.” The rough velvet of his voice was a pleasure-stroke against her ears. Fascinated, bewildered, Beatrix stared at his guarded face. To Christopher Phelan, she was a stranger. But the memories of his letters were between them, even if he wasn’t aware of it. Her hand moved gently over Albert’s rough fur. “You were absent in London,” she said. “There was a great deal of hullabaloo on your behalf.” “I wasn’t ready for it.” So much was expressed in that spare handful of words. Of course he wasn’t ready. The contrast would be too jarring, the blood-soaked brutality of war followed by a fanfare of parades and trumpets and flower petals. “I can’t imagine any sane man would be,” she said. “It’s quite an uproar. Your picture is in all the shop windows. And they’re naming things after you.” “Things,” he repeated cautiously. “There’s a Phelan hat.” His brows lowered. “No there isn’t.” “Oh, yes there is. Rounded at the top. Narrow-brimmed. Sold in shades of gray or black. They have one featured at the milliner’s in Stony Cross.” Scowling, Christopher muttered something beneath his breath.

Steph, I’m really not in the mood this morning for your attitude,” I growled.   “Too bad,” she shot at me. “Your girlfriend spent the night on my couch.”   “What?” My reaction got a snide little smirk out of her. I pushed my annoyance to side and questioned her about Bella.   “She’s fine. So far. Stubborn girl that one.” She pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head, pushing her chestnut curls out of the way of her eyes. “She told me about her kid.” Her voice dropped and she walked around her Camaro until she was standing in front of me. With the sun just starting to rise, her face looked soft. Like it used to before so much hatred and pain settled in her expression.   “Why is she by you? Why isn’t she here?” I sunk my hands into my front pockets, trying to keep my voice civil. Getting all hard on Steph would only send her packing back up into her car and heading out without giving me any information. And if Bella was hiding out there, Steph would make the fucking place a fortress to keep me out.   “She doesn’t want to see you, or want your help.” She leaned against her car. “Apparently, her friends are involved on the wrong side of this shit storm, and she doesn’t have anyone else.”   We never talked about family. She knew about my brother, but she didn’t talk about her family. Did she even have anyone other than that fucking ex of hers? “Did she finally get a hold of Ashley?”   “Yeah, well, sort of. Not that it was any help. The important call she got was from Shadow.”   “Shadow called her?” My hands came out of my pockets, balled into fists, and I took a step toward her. Stella weathered more than one shit storm, as she liked to call them, while married to Jaxson, she kept her ground, not even flinching.   “Yeah. He’s got the little girl. The fucking prick.” Her eyes widened and her mouth went taught. Jaxson never could get her to quit cursing like a biker, but I think it was one of the things he found so damn irresistible about her. She didn’t take shit from anyone, but she could sure as hell dish it out when she needed to.   “What did he want?”   “He wants to meet her. Said he’d give her back the kid if she meets him this morning at eleven.”   The little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Bella wasn’t as seasoned as Stella.

Why are you crying, Kiva?” "You have a tortured soul." "He hates that he fell in love with you." “Where’s Caldon?” “He’s d-dead.” "What?" Jaren said, his voice whip-sharp. "You would have what? Stopped her? You're a Corentine. The Jackal. The rebel general. Isn’t this what you wanted? Congratulations, you succeeded." "He's from a family of liars and murderers. Trust him all you want, but you'll only bring about your own ruin. Then you'll have no one to blame but yourself." "No one escapes Zalindov." A manic laugh slipped out. "Not even when they do." "You have been found guilty of crimes against humanity.

It isn’t unknown in the Mafia world for a family of mostly men to share a woman; it happens more than you think. Polyamorous relationships are common for made families, like the one I have with the guys. None of us are related by blood, but they are still my family.

The bad shit changes you. You can’t look at the world the same. You realize that manners, morals, culture, society, friends, and family are all fake. They’re ideas we cling to, to make existence bearable. When that’s ripped away — the fake optimistic bullshit — the only thing you have left is survival. Survival is messy. Survival has no morals or kindness. Survival isn’t black and white, good versus evil. Survival is shades of red; it’s blood taken and blood lost. My survival was a gun, liquor was my sustenance, and rough sex was my painkiller.

My blood may not run through her veins, but that’s the thing about family, isn’t it? You’re not always born together. You’re brought together by circumstances out of your control, crashing into each other much like the waves of the sea.

Eliza is family and each time I let her hurt me, I keep reminding myself that we share the same blood. I can never hurt her back. But not forgiving her is not me trying to inflict pain. My not forgiving her is not criminal. I'm hurting. Isn't that enough of a reason? I can't bring myself to ask for an explanation, like I did with James the first time. Stories are important to me. I like knowing other people's sides so that I can create my own best judgment. Yet some people's stories have a twisted way of distorting my own. Sometimes I see too much of one side and forget my own. I get guilty and forgive, thinking that I've solved the problem when I haven't. Eliza talks about her heartbreak, trying to answer the questions she assumes I have. I don't listen. I suppose it's selfish of me to close myself off because of that. But I so desperately want to be selfish. And maybe it's not even selfishness. Right now, I can't take her story and keep my own. Maybe one day, but not today.

Family isn't always blood, it's the people in your life who want you in theirs: the ones who accept you for who you are, the ones who would do anything to see you smile and who love you no matter what.

Crazy, insane, gorgeous human. I can’t believe Melody is here. It’s like something out of a dream. She looks amazing, too. The last time I saw her, she was skin and bones, all ribs and bruises. Now she’s filled out and she looks healthy and lovely…all the more reason she doesn’t need to get tangled up with me. I’m not a good male. She deserves better. I stalk away from the edge of the platform, my thoughts whirling, all of them focused around curling hair and a cheery smile. The way she lifted my hand to her mouth and kissed my knuckles as if she were paying homage to me… “Hey, Brux!” Jonnas jogs up to my side as I storm back to the crane I was working on. “Go away.” “You know that female?” He lifts his chin at me, a smirk on his face. “You buy a couple nights with her in some cantina or something? You think she’s still taking clients⁠—” I turn on him so quickly that he stumbles backward. “You do not speak to her,” I snarl. “You do not make eye contact. You do not even look in her direction.” He puts his hands up. “Okay, so she’s yours. I got it.” She’s not mine. She deserves better. She deserves a life without someone like me bothering her, weighing her down… “But we all heard her ask you for dinner. Why’d you turn her down if she’s your female?” “Go back to work,” I tell him, voice flat. And I go back to work myself, trying to concentrate on the dock plans and knowing that I’m going to fail miserably at everything today. I’m going to think about Melody, and that night five years ago. I’m going to think about how sweet her mouth was against mine, and how good her body felt, how soft and fragile she was… And what a mistake it was for us to end up in bed together. So yeah, I turned her down today. Melody deserves better than an ugly alien with no good family name, no credits to speak of, and a criminal history. She deserves better than someone who’s an outcast amongst his own, whose blood isn’t pure mesakkah but might have a bit of moden in it. She deserves better than a broken-horned laborer.

Family isn't just blood; it's loyalty, sacrifice, and fighting for each other, no matter the cost.

Look at our skin, Hela,” I whispered. “Yours is a little browner than mine, but it’s still skin, isn’t it? It’s skin over blood over bones, just like any person. A Jew is a person with blood and skin and a family, some of them good, some of them bad, just like everyone. Only they choose Moses as their leader instead of Jesus. But remember, Jesus was a Jew, too. One God for both, Hela. Our mama said that.

I know my family's faults more, better, than anyone. But I . . . I'm still one of them, Morty. I might hate them sometimes - more often than not, even - but they're still mine. My blood. This isn't just about me. I have to factor their best interests in, too." "Like hell you do," he shot back, rounding on me. "The very last thing you have to do in this life is pander to toxic people. Keep catering to them even as they do their very best to damage you, keep you small and controlled. Caged in the box they built for you. You can certainly choose to do that, but, Nina, listen - this is not you. It's not who you are, what you stand for. From everything I've seen of you, I know you're better than this. Stronger, wiser. So much kinder and more compassionate.

We're half-sisters, though. And in this family, we protect one another, no matter how much we may otherwise disagree. It's the only way to keep the hounds at bay, isn't it? To close ranks and watch out for each other... He deserved to fall off that balcony. I don't regret what happened to him in the least.

The Enefadeh are the reason we wear blood sigils, Lady Yeine. No one may pass the night in Sky without one. It isn't safe.

Family isn't blood. "Families are made in the heart. "It's the people who love you. "It's knowing that your family will be there watching out for you. "Nothing else will give you that.

Family is the most valuable thing on earth, though Lord knows I didn’t live my life with that conviction. Remember that family isn’t just blood kin but anyone who fits into your heart.

Remember that family isn’t just blood kin but anyone who fits into your heart.

It isn’t just blood that makes a family, Nora – it’s being there for that person, it’s wanting the best for them, it’s caring more for them than you care for yourself.