History isn't about dates and places and wars. It's about the people who fill the spaces between them.

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

Normal, in our house, is like a blanket too short for a bed--sometimes it covers you just fine, and other times it leaves you cold and shaking; and worst of all, you never know which of the two it's going to be.

You'd think someone who'd been to medical school would be able to hear through a stethoscope that somebody was empty inside.

I always wondered why God was supposed to be a father," she whispers. Fathers always want you to measure up to something. Mothers are the ones who love you unconditionally, don't you think?

We all want to know what went wrong, even when there isn't really an answer to that question.

Most people who offer their help do it to make themselves feel better, not us. To be honest, I don't blame them. It's superstition: If you give assistance to the family in need... if you throw salt over your shoulder... if you don't step on the cracks, then maybe you'll be immune. Maybe you'll be able to convince yourself that this could never happen to you.