It was the summer of 2006, and I had just come home from a sleepover. I was 13-years-old — make-up, beauty magazines, going to the mall with friends, and starting my freshman year of high school were all that mattered, but that was soon all put into perspective. I walked inside and found my mom crying. I had never seen her cry like this before.
I didn’t know how to respond, so I sat quiet. My mom told me she felt suffocated, stuck and lifeless. She told me how unhappy she was in …
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There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written. – Oscar Wilde
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