I wondered how long it took for a baby to become yours, for familiarity to set in. Maybe as long as it took a new car to lose that scent, or a brand-new house to gather dust. Maybe that was the process more commonly described as bonding: the act of learning your child as well as you know yourself.

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

Families were never what you wanted them to be. We all wanted what we couldn't have: the perfect child, the doting husband, the mother who wouldn't let go. We live in our grown-up dollhouses completely unaware that, at any moment, a hand might come in and change around everything we'd become accustomed to.

Maybe you had to leave in order to really miss a place; maybe you had to travel to figure out how beloved your starting point was.

Close a door, and you'd still feel a breeze through the window.

How could you go about choosing something that would hold the half of your heart you had to bury?

It does'nt matter who forgives you, if you're the one who can't forget.