It was their mothers, long ago. Tibby noted with joy that all four of them were wearing jeans.

I did the searching and remembering, she did the disappearing and the forgetting.

But I know this. We're ready to move forward again in our way. Together or apart, no matter how far apart, we live in one another. We go on together.

Starting is hard so I really need to give myself permission to do a bad job. I always give myself leave to write total nonsense for as long as I need to release the pressure, because it's really hard to start if you feel like that first sentence you write has to actually mean something.

Women always seemed to bring the size they wished they were to the fitting room, rather than the size that would actually fit.

They needed to grieve alone was what Tibby's dad said. Lena wondered if really there was any choice in that. Everyone grieved alone.

As a writer, you live in such isolation. It's hard to imagine your book has a life beyond you.