And have your mother put my head on a stake? Do you have any notion what that would do to my handsome good looks?
My mom told me once that Wyatt loved her the way a boy will love his mother, but I loved her the way an artist loves another. Jo taught me what that meant.
Noah?" A welcome voice - not my mother's, but welcome all the same: Echo. A smile spread across my face. This was too good. Me in a towel, alone in the house with my nymph. I left the bathroom.
He did not alarm her, for she thought she had seen him before in the faces of many women who have no children. Perhaps he is to be found in the faces of some mothers also.
A mix of revenge, sadness and anger funnels into a decision that’s so simple and neat, it could fit in my pocket. I will help Kudzu destroy Aevum. Just like Magnus destroyed my mother.
Our stories are what we have,” Our Good Mother says. “Our stories preserve us. we give them to one another. Our stories have value. Do you understand?
A portion of guilt is standard issue for southern boys; our whole lives are convoluted, egregious apologies to our mothers because our fathers have made us such flawed husbands.
Hortense and Berthe nodded, as though profoundly impressed by the wisdom of their mother's pronouncements. She had long since convinced them of the absolute inferiority of men, whose sole function was to marry and to pay.
A mother is an individual who'd go to any length for someone else, beyond rationality, beyond her physical body, her social bindings of state, country, her kind. That's the most horrifying individual you'll ever meet.
I wanted to live. For the father and brother who I never knew and for my mother who was cheated of a life of happiness. I wanted to live for them. And I wanted to live for me.
Peter was not very well during the evening. His mother put him to bed, and made some chamomile tea: "One table-spoonful to be taken at bedtime.
Whatever it is I'm born to do, my fear of failing at it has almost become greater than my desire to figure out what it is.
I now understand that writing fiction was a seed planted in my soul, though I would not be ready to grow that seed for a long time.
I wonder if that's the perennial story of writers: you find the true light, you lose the true light, you find it again. And maybe again.
Think for a minute, darling: in fairy tales it's always the children who have the fine adventures. The mothers have to stay at home and wait for the children to fly in the window.
I think about my mother singing after lunch on a Summer afternoon, twirling in blue dress across the floor of her dressing room
I don't want to talk to you no more, you empty headed animal food trough wiper. I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries.
that old Mrs. Bishop was lacking in the qualities that make a good mother. And saying it that way makes her sound a good deal better than she really was.
You have a mother?" His mouth quirked with humor. "Yep, and a father too! Every kid normally has one of each to begin with. He was teasing me in an affectionate way...
A miracle came in the form of a doctor whom her mother knew. He put her in a roasting pan and placed her above a fire to keep her warm.
Whereas Rosa’s lips were full and lush, her mother’s were thin and pinched in an expression that hinted at pain so long suppressed and hidden that in hiding from the world, the pain had become second nature.
