“Rahel put on her sunglasses and looked back into the Play. Everything was Angry-colored. Sophie Mol, standing between Margaret Kochamma and Chacko, looked as though she ought to be slapped.”
″ ‘My daughter, Sophie,’ Chacko said, and laughed a small, nervous laugh that was worried, in case Margaret Kochamma said ‘ex-daughter.’ But she didn’t.”
“It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined. Over the years, as the memory of Sophie Mol [...] slowly faded, the Loss of Sophie Mol grew robust and alive.”