I don’t know when I was born. I’ve stopped pretending that I do.
Just like plants, we inherit some traits from those who came before us, but when I spend time with my siblings I’m amazed by how different we are.
It isn’t my job to bear as much pain as I possibly can to prove that I am somehow worthy of becoming a mother. Why is it so hard to remember this?
Our first book club discussion was a learning experience.
If the muffins had been good, we’d have eaten them and gone to bed. But the story of their catastrophic badness: that, we could forever savor.
I was already in love with all my friends. But in my newfound singleness, I was falling in love with them more deeply.
When my grandmother died, she didn’t want a funeral. She did have thoughts about what we should do with her ashes.
I’ve long been taught that the appearance of a good marriage, not a good marriage necessarily, is the ultimate goal.
When I say I love you, you know exactly what I mean, that this, our love, our family, is a small, fierce revolution.