If you had grown up with me, this is one of the things I would have tried to teach you: Marry a man who loves you more than you love him. Because I have both now, and when it is the other way around, there is no spell in the world that can even out the balance.

No, honestly, my mouth shouldn't be able to function unless my brain's engaged.

That's the strange thing about being a mother: until you have a baby, you don't even realize how much you were missing one

Clearly God was in some kind of mood on my birthday.

If you loved someone, really loved them, would you let them go?

It was so damn hard to find love in this world, to locate someone who could make you feel that there was a reason you'd been put on this earth. A child, I imagined, was the purest form of that. A child was the love you didn't have to look for, didn't have to prove anything to, didn't have to worry about losing. Which is why, when it happened, it hurt so badly.

What I really want to tell him is to pick up that baby of his and hold her tight, to set the moon on the edge of her crib and to hang her name up in the stars.