If you want something to be true badly enough, you can rewrite it that way, in your head. You can even start to believe it.

Maybe knowing where you belong is not equal to knowing who you are.

And if your parents have you for a reason, then that reason better exist. Because once it's gone, so are you.

Even though it hurt, there are kinds of pain you couldn't speak out loud.

I watch her do the simplest things: brushing her hair into a ponytail, feeding the dog, tying Sophie's shoelaces, and I want to tell her what she means to me, but I never actually say the words. After all, to acknowledge Delia as a drug, I'd have to face the fact that one day I might have to go without her and this I can't do.

My mother... she is beautiful, softened at the edges and tempered with a spine of steel. I want to grow old and be like her.

I don't have to live the lives of my characters to write about them. It's about really putting yourself in their shoes.