But love wasn't about sacrifice, and it wasn't about falling short of someone's expectations. By definition, love made you better than good enough; it redefined perfection to include your traits, instead of excluding them. All any of us wanted, really, was to know that we counted. That someone else's life would not have been as rich without us here.

It turns out that sharing the past with someone is different from reliving it when you’re alone. It feels less like a wound, more like a poultice.

When a freedom is taken away from you, I suppose, you recognize it as a privilege, not a right.

She wondered if this was true of every parent: if, prior to having children, they all used to be someone else.

Shooting stars are not stars at all. They re just rocks that enter the atmosphere and catch fire under friction. What we wish on when we see one is only a trail of debris.

But you could only remake your own future, not anyone else's, and for some people that just wasn't good enough.

I think I have sort of gravitated toward issues that I don't know the answers to, because that's what's more interesting for me to write.