In half hour my mother has managed to give me what my father couldn't: my past.

It still hurts," she whispered. "Even when you're doing it for someone else, that doesn't stop your ribs from getting cracked, or your wrist swelling, or your cuts from bleeding.

You can be strapped to the most stable chair and still feel the world give way beneath you.

No, honestly, my mouth shouldn't be able to function unless my brain's engaged.

All I know is that I carried you for nine months. I fed you, I clothed you, I paid for your college education. Friending me on Facebook seems like a small thing to ask in return.

Just because you keep something a secret doesn't mean it never happened, no matter how much you want that to be true.

If it is possible to die of grief then why on earth can't someone be healed by happiness?