Life sometimes gets so bogged down in the details, you forget you are living it.

Or. I hate that word. It’s two letters long and stuffed to the gills with reasonable doubt.

But if you seek forgiveness, doesn't that automatically mean you cannot be a monster? By definition, doesn't that desperation make you human again?

Then Henry speaks again. "Did he do it?" I turn to him slowly. "Does it matter?

I ...understand how a parent might hit a child- it's because you can look into their eyes and see a reflection of yourself that you wish you hadn't.

I think my writing has become "cleaner."

Mistakes are like the memories you hide in an attic: old love letters from relationships that tanked, photos of dead relatives, toys from a childhood you miss. Out of sight is out of mind, but somewhere deep inside you know they still exist. And you also know that you're avoiding them.