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

Frankly, I wonder who Frank was, and why he has an adverb all to himself.

Where did you go?" "To the end of the driveway," my mother says. "I was nine months pregnant; that was the maximum distance I could waddle without feeling as if my uterus was falling out." I wince. "Do you have to be quite so graphic?" "What would you like me to call it, Zoe? A fetal living room?

What you had could never make up for what you'd lost.

I think grief is like a really ugly couch. It never goes away. You can decorate around it; you can slap a doily on top of it; you can push it to the corner of the room-but eventually, you learn to live with it.

Sometimes you can see things happen right in front of your eyes and still jump to the wrong conclusions.

We Pisces, we're a special breed.