I like to imagine the "what ifs" of history.

I suppose at some point, we all have to decide which memories - real or otherwise - to hold on to, and which ones to let go.

When you write things down, they sometimes take you places you hadn't planned.

My head grew muddled with it all; the silly ways adults acted with one another, never saying what they meant, trusting in sighs and glances and distance to speak for them instead. How dangerous that was! How easy it must be to misinterpret a sigh or a look.

Why, then, did I always feel as if his happiness was my responsibility? It wasn't fair for him to burden me with that. It had never been fair.

There is always so much talk about the sins of the fathers but it is the sins of the mothers that are the most difficult to avoid repeating.

Never would I allow my size to define me. Instead I would define it.