You know how hind-sight is 20/20? Love is when you look back and wouldn't change anything.

You don't need water to feel like you're drowning, do you?

As Lacy waited for her turn to speak on Peter's behalf, she thought back to the first time she realized she could hate her own child.

We'd sit with a big bowl of popcorn, wrapped together in a queen-size blanket, and would escape to a place where magic was ours for the taking, where men rescued the people they loved instead of abandoning them. A place where, no matter how bad things looked at that moment, there would always be a happy ending.

There should be a statute of limitation on grief. A rulebook that says it is all right to wake up crying, but only for a month. That after 42 days you will no longer turn with your heart racing, certain you have heard her call out your name. That there will be no fine imposed if you feel the need to clean out her desk; take down her artwork from the refrigerator; turn over a school portrait as you pass - if only because it cuts you fresh again to see it. That it's okay to measure the time she has been gone, the way we once measured her birthdays.

I think people do things all the time in the name of love that they shouldn't be doing - such is the nature of us.

How do you walk into someone's life again after twenty-eight years? How do you pick up, when you were too young to know where you left off.