Dear M, I’ve changed what I want to say to you. In a word document simply titled Family, I had it all typed out. But now it’s not what I want to say. The words I wrote then I wrote with an angry heart. Worse still, with a bitter heart. I thought it was what I really wanted you to know. I thought it was what I really wanted to say. And maybe it was, at that time. But it’s not anymore. I’m different than when I wrote what I did. I’m not longer a hurt child. I no longer hold you

It wasn’t long after my mother passed away that I started what would become one of my most prized possessions: a quote book.  It isn’t anything special to look at, just a journal bought from Big Lots, but I still remember the day I picked it out. I knew then it would be more than just pages bound together with writing on them. To me, it’s a lifeline to remind me of where I’ve been, point me to where I’m going, and take note of where I am today. Yesterday, an odd quote surface