I know now that we never get over great losses; we absorb them, and they carve us into different, often kinder, creatures.

You can’t change the tale so that you turned left one day instead of right, or didn’t make the mistake that might have saved your life a day later. We don’t get those choices. The story is what got you here, and embracing its truth is what makes the outcome bearable.

The flaw is the thing we love.

That she was irreplaceable became a bittersweet loyalty: Her death was what I had now instead of her.

the mother's first job is to raise a daughter strong enough to outlast her.

Maybe this is the point: to embrace the core sadness of life without toppling headlong into it, or assuming it will define your days.

If writers possess a common temperament, it's that they tend to be shy egomaniacs; publicity is the spotlight they suffer for the recognition they crave.