Growing up in the fifties and sixties, I can only remember knowing one child, ever, whose parents got a divorce, and hardly any whose mother "worked" at anything besides raising her children.

The portrait of my parents is a complicated one, but lovingly drawn.

For 25 years, I did take my responsibilities as a pleaser of others sufficiently seriously.

Those who rhapsodize about the ease and joy of childhood have perhaps forgotten what it's like to be 12 years old.

Not only did I avoid speaking of Salinger; I resisted thinking about him. I did not reread his letters to me. The experience had been too painful.

A good home must be made, not bought. In the end, it's not track lighting or a sun room that brings light into a kitchen.

I compromised my ability to tell my story, at the most basic level.