Angela Reade

“God, I miss my mum. To the rest of the world you’re just a living, growing mass of cells. Your brain fully forms and your bones start to lengthen and before you know it, you’re a card-carrying grown-up who’s expected to drive cars, pay bills and remember to buy tinfoil. But to your mum, you’ll always be a bit gormless. The girl who sneezed in her porridge and ate it anyway. And I miss that. I miss being a half-wit and being loved for it.”
― Caz Frear, Sweet Little Lies

“There are widows. And widowers. And orphans. But there is no word to define a parent who loses a child. The language is missing a noun. Perhaps because it is so unnatural.”
― John Boyne, Water

“Every man's memory is his private literature.”
― Aldous Huxley