Marlon Bain’s letters (pp. 1050–1051)

The dog S. Johnson, dragged to a "nubbin" behind Avril's Volvo by a stoned Orin who then lies about a "pulverize-and-run driver," produces the book's clearest study of love-bombardment. Avril doesn't punish; she does the opposite — the "love-and-support-bombardment increased," favorite foods and loving notes appearing magically, all while she hides her real grief for the dog so Orin won't feel guilt. And Bain asks the question that turns the whole system inside out: whether this superhuman generosity was "for Orin's sake, or for Avril's own" — whether she was safeguarding his self-esteem or "her own vision of herself as a more stellar Moms than any human son could ever hope to feel he merits." He lands it with the philanthropist who needs suffering to demonstrate his virtue, prizing his own goodness over the people it's aimed at. The mother's flawless love reframed as self-regard: the child a piece of equipment on which she develops her own magnificence.