I don’t see it as a book ending. I see it as turning the page on one chapter and finding the start of a new one.
I will always be grateful for Liane Moriarty’s story to have found me, giving me what I needed and then showing me how special a reading life can be.
As Mother’s Day approaches this year, I exhaustedly celebrate being a mother of four. This little piece of paper reminds me that the plans I make are never as exquisite as the ones already designed for me.
I began taking personal offense to each drink my mother had, each cheap plastic vodka bottle I found hidden in her closet.
I can remember times where utilities in the house would be turned off, non-stop bill collectors calling, and even some showing up at our house.
When that date arrived, we did what has become strangely common… we gathered closely around our computer, while my younger daughter sat patiently waiting to record what we hoped would be one of our happiest moments.
At that moment I pretty much resigned myself to the fact that my childhood dreams of having babies was over.
He had gone off in a corner somewhere and was nowhere to be seen when we began to eat. As we sat in the dining room eating and talking, we had no idea what was going on in the kitchen.
As I sat at my Mother’s Thanksgiving table looking at the fantastic sunset, I was filled appreciation for the opportunity to break bread with so many people I am lucky enough to call my family.
Following our first wedding anniversary, we went in for our third attempt at an egg retrieval for IVF. On the way to the clinic I shook my head and said, “this is just never going to work.”