Mom, who had retreated earlier in the scene to her bedroom out of
(from the bedroom window, to Leo and the others in the backyard)
Those sons-of-b**ches! You can lick their envelopes for them, but then, God forbid, if you say: What about me? When do I get a turn? Since you were a little boy, Leo, that's been the way with you. I can remember incidents with your sister, and time after time you'd end up crying, and I'd sit on the steps with you and try to get you to see. "What did you expect?" I'd ask you. That time with the neighbor's dog? -- you were sitting right where you are now, sharing your Good Humor bar – a lick for you and a lick for what-was-his-name. (remembering) Mittens. And how upset you got – well of course you were all of four years old – when the dog bit off the whole damn thing and walked away. People are dogs, Leo. It's one thing to give them your best, but never give them your heart. But all right, you're home now, and there will be time to talk about all of this. We will sit down and go over everything. We will make lists. We are going to get you squared away!