Bonding Mother Daughter Quotes

You grew up too fast, baby." Didn't always feel that way, especially this morning when I couldn't find my other flip-flop and I'd been, like, two seconds from kicking a fit.

She is the creature of life, the giver of life, and the giver of abundant love, care and protection. Such are the great qualities of a mother. The bond between a mother and her child is the only real and purest bond in the world, the only true love we can ever find in our lifetime.

Destiny. To believe that a life is meant for a single purpose, one must also believe in a common fate. Father to daughter, brother to sister, mother to child. Blood ties can be as unyielding as they are eternal. But it is our bonds of choice that truly light the road we travel. Love versus hatred. Loyalty against betrayal. A person's true destiny can only be revealed at the end of his journey, and the story I have to tell is far from over.

The bond between a mother and daughter is sacred. You know better than anyone that no matter how awful they are, we still find it in our hearts to love them.

Listen kid, it’s just you and me now, so let’s help each other out. Always be honest with me, and show me how to be the mother and father I never had. I’ll make a mess of things sometimes, and I’m sorry in advance, but I’ll try. My word is bond.

Mothers and daughters share a special bond." "I never knew how special until it wasn't there anymore. I'm twenty-seven, and when something good or bad happens in my life, I still wonder what my mom would think. I've lived more of my life without her than with her, but it still matters.

If my mother and I shared anything without having carefully considered it, it was this undying ember of a dream that we will someday, somehow find ourselves reaping the bounty of a blooming mother-daughter bond, the roots of which we both refuse to tend in the meantime.

But sibling relationships can also be shaped by the dynamic between the unloving mother and her daughter, most particularly when a mother differentiates between her children, being loving and attentive to one but not to another. In many families, the dynamic will weaken sibling bonds.

...she speaks words so powerful the wind etches them inside the atmosphere for women to remember through history. 'I exist. Outside of being a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter, I exist. I exist as a human first, as a being that experiences joy and suffering, beauty and learning, life and tragedy. I exist because the universe chose to put me here for a purpose higher than my relation to men. I exist because a wise old woman gave me a gift and now magic runs through my veins. So the problem is not my existence as half dragon, half girl/ The problem is how you perceive it as so small, you do not believe I can exist at all apart from through my bonds with men.

It’s not a bad thing, if you’re responsible about it. Just don’t start having boyfriends. Wait until you’ve found your husband.” “And how am I supposed to find a husband if I can’t have a boyfriend until then?” I asked ironically.

The knowledge that she would never be loved in return acted upon her ideas as a tide acts upon cliffs. Her religious beliefs went first, for all she could ask of a god, or of immortality, was the gift of a place where daughters love their mothers; the other attributes of Heaven you could have for a song. Next she lost her belief in the sincerity of those about her. She secretly refused to believe that anyone (herself excepted) loved anyone. All families lived in a wasteful atmosphere of custom and kissed one another with secret indifference. She saw that the people of this world moved about in an armor of egotism, drunk with self-gazing, athirst for compliments, hearing little of what was said to them, unmoved by the accidents that befell their closest friends, in dread of all appeals that might interrupt their long communion with their own desires. These were the sons and daughters of Adam from Cathay to Peru. And when on the balcony her thoughts reached this turn, her mouth would contract with shame for she knew that she too sinned and that though her love for her daughter was vast enough to include all the colors of love, it was not without a shade of tyranny: she loved her daughter not for her daughter's sake, but for her own. She longed to free herself from this ignoble bond; but the passion was too fierce to cope with.

I stared silently at the flame, allowing it to soothe my pounding heart. It was light, it was life and it was connected to my mother.

She set the course of our mother-daughter relationship and cemented it to what we are today—two strangers with blood as our bond.

The morning was brisk and the coffee was hot and roasted with little gurgles in the room. Rosie hadn’t moved, but she let out a tiny snore every now and again that made everything perfect.

Beginning to slow down, my mother walked at a steady pace, cutting through the village and heading down to the sandy shore. The strength in her was admirable as she continued to carry me, even as she struggled to trek through the deep sand.

You know how there’s that one person who stumbles into your life and you instantly have a connection with them? Someone who’s a genuinely good person. Someone you just know you can build a great bond with, and it doesn’t have to be in a romantic way either. It can be with someone you have no attraction to whatsoever, you just instantly recognize something in them and they in you. Like in another realm, in another life, you were meant to be together in some way. Whether with a mother, daughter, sibling, best friend, or romantic partner, it’s a strong, unexplainable connection between two individuals

And maybe love is terrifying. I'm terrified now, but not in the way she would think. I'm terrified because I hate who she is and what she's done, I do, and yet there is still something strong and powerful between us, some kind of deep, primal bond that won't end, won't snap or break or change, it just remains there inside me, as sold and factual as my blood and bones - she is my mother, I am her daughter - and I don't know what to call it because it doesn't feel like love, not the good kind I felt for Ellie, with all my heart, but instead an instinctual pull that's been there from the beginning, drawing me back to her again and again, the woman who has hurt me like no one else ever could, and now she's dying and the bond is still here, inside me, and I won't call it love or hate because emotions has nothing to do with the fact that she is my mother and I am her daughter, and we will be connected in that way forever.

That bond, the one between sisters—it is second only to the one between a mother and a daughter.

When you hold me close, I breathe in your special scent. You are my sanctuary. [My Beautiful Mother]

Mother-daughter bonding time, huh?” I muttered dryly. “Perhaps after the tour we could drown a litter of bunnies. Or do you only do that to your child?” I

A mother-daughter bond is the perfect blessing, so that makes me one blessed mom, because I have YOU.

Sweet braised black soybeans, crisp yellow sprouts with scallion and sesame oil, and tart, juicy cucumber kimchi were shoveled into our mouths behind spoonfuls of warm, lavender kong bap straight from the open rice cooker. We'd giggle and shush each other as we ate ganjang gejang with our fingers, sucking salty, rich, custardy raw crab from its shell, prodding the meat from its crevices with our tongues, licking our soy sauce-stained fingers. Between chews of a wilted perilla leaf, my mother would say, "This is how I know you're a true Korean.

I reached for her hand and held it. It was bold of me to make such a move, but I thought we might bond now that we had something so huge in common -- a dead man whose last name we shared.

What is the age of the soul of man? As she hath the virtue of the chameleon to change her hue at every new approach, to be gay with the merry and mournful with the downcast, so too is her age changeable as her mood. No longer is Leopold, as he sits there, ruminating, chewing the cud of reminiscence, that staid agent of publicity and holder of a modest substance in the funds. He is young Leopold, as in a retrospective arrangement, a mirror within a mirror (hey, presto!), he beholdeth himself. That young figure of then is seen, precociously manly, walking on a nipping morning from the old house in Clambrassil street to the high school, his booksatchel on him bandolierwise, and in it a goodly hunk of wheaten loaf, a mother's thought. Or it is the same figure, a year or so gone over, in his first hard hat (ah, that was a day!), already on the road, a fullfledged traveller for the family firm, equipped with an orderbook, a scented handkerchief (not for show only), his case of bright trinketware (alas, a thing now of the past!), and a quiverful of compliant smiles for this or that halfwon housewife reckoning it out upon her fingertips or for a budding virgin shyly acknowledging (but the heart? tell me!) his studied baisemoins. The scent, the smile but more than these, the dark eyes and oleaginous address brought home at duskfall many a commission to the head of the firm seated with Jacob's pipe after like labours in the paternal ingle (a meal of noodles, you may be sure, is aheating), reading through round horned spectacles some paper from the Europe of a month before. But hey, presto, the mirror is breathed on and the young knighterrant recedes, shrivels, to a tiny speck within the mist. Now he is himself paternal and these about him might be his sons. Who can say? The wise father knows his own child. He thinks of a drizzling night in Hatch street, hard by the bonded stores there, the first. Together (she is a poor waif, a child of shame, yours and mine and of all for a bare shilling and her luckpenny), together they hear the heavy tread of the watch as two raincaped shadows pass the new royal university. Bridie! Bridie Kelly! He will never forget the name, ever remember the night, first night, the bridenight. They are entwined in nethermost darkness, the willer and the willed, and in an instant (fiat!) light shall flood the world. Did heart leap to heart? Nay, fair reader. In a breath 'twas done but - hold! Back! It must not be! In terror the poor girl flees away through the murk. She is the bride of darkness, a daughter of night. She dare not bear the sunnygolden babe of day. No, Leopold! Name and memory solace thee not. That youthful illusion of thy strength was taken from thee and in vain. No son of thy loins is by thee. There is none to be for Leopold, what Leopold was for Rudolph.

1 You said ‘The world is going back to Paganism’. Oh bright Vision! I saw our dynasty in the bar of the House Spill from their tumblers a libation to the Erinyes, And Leavis with Lord Russell wreathed in flowers, heralded with flutes, Leading white bulls to the cathedral of the solemn Muses To pay where due the glory of their latest theorem. Hestia’s fire in every flat, rekindled, burned before The Lardergods. Unmarried daughters with obedient hands Tended it. By the hearth the white-armd venerable mother Domum servabat, lanam faciebat. At the hour Of sacrifice their brothers came, silent, corrected, grave Before their elders; on their downy cheeks easily the blush Arose (it is the mark of freemen’s children) as they trooped, Gleaming with oil, demurely home from the palaestra or the dance. Walk carefully, do not wake the envy of the happy gods, Shun Hubris. The middle of the road, the middle sort of men, Are best. Aidos surpasses gold. Reverence for the aged Is wholesome as seasonable rain, and for a man to die Defending the city in battle is a harmonious thing. Thus with magistral hand the Puritan Sophrosune Cooled and schooled and tempered our uneasy motions; Heathendom came again, the circumspection and the holy fears … You said it. Did you mean it? Oh inordinate liar, stop. 2 Or did you mean another kind of heathenry? Think, then, that under heaven-roof the little disc of the earth, Fortified Midgard, lies encircled by the ravening Worm. Over its icy bastions faces of giant and troll Look in, ready to invade it. The Wolf, admittedly, is bound; But the bond wil1 break, the Beast run free. The weary gods, Scarred with old wounds the one-eyed Odin, Tyr who has lost a hand, Will limp to their stations for the Last defence. Make it your hope To be counted worthy on that day to stand beside them; For the end of man is to partake of their defeat and die His second, final death in good company. The stupid, strong Unteachable monsters are certain to be victorious at last, And every man of decent blood is on the losing side. Take as your model the tall women with yellow hair in plaits Who walked back into burning houses to die with men, Or him who as the death spear entered into his vitals Made critical comments on its workmanship and aim. Are these the Pagans you spoke of? Know your betters and crouch, dogs; You that have Vichy water in your veins and worship the event Your goddess History (whom your fathers called the strumpet Fortune).

I was running, as fast as I could, carrying you, Carnation, shaking and scared ... She was there, waiting for me. Standing surrounded by a meadow of lavender, her arms opened wide for me to run into and cry and cry ...

They’d talked about the past in their bits-and-pieces way. Never all at once, never one big end-up-crying-and-hugging moment, but a constant brushing up of the past, reexamining actions and decisions and beliefs, offering apologies, forgiveness. All of it had brought them closer to who they were, who they’d always been. Mother and daughter. Their essential, immutable bond—fragile enough to snap at a harsh word a long time ago, durable enough to survive death itself. “Mommy! There you are,” MJ

The term given to the way babies are brought up in elephant herds is allomothering, a fancy word for “It takes a village.” Like everything else, there is a biological reason to allow your sisters and aunts to help you parent: When you have to feed on 150 kilograms of food a day and you have a baby that loves to explore, you can’t run after him and get all the nutrition you need to make milk for him. Allomothering also allows young cows to learn how to take care of a baby, how to protect a baby, how to give a baby the time and space it needs to explore without putting it in danger. So theoretically you could say an elephant has many mothers. And yet there is a special and inviolable bond between the calf and its birth mother. In the wild, a calf under the age of two will not survive without its mother. In the wild, a mother’s job is to teach her daughter everything she will need to know to become a mother herself. In the wild, a mother and daughter stay together until one of them dies.

It is interesting to note that the people who had a good relationship with the person who died often heal their grief much more easily than those whose relationship with the deceased was filled with turmoil, bitterness, or disappointment. The reason is that a positive relationship is associated with good memories, and remembering and reprocessing these memories helps in the healing process. When people who had a bad relationship think back on it, they have to relive the pain. In their mind, they are still trying to fix what was wrong, to heal the wound, but they can’t. In addition, the guilt they carry with them impairs the healing process. Donna is a case in point. Donna and her mother had had a stormy relationship, fighting constantly over things that seemed insignificant in and of themselves. Yet in spite of their problems, the year after her mother’s death was the hardest of Donna’s life. Her husband could not understand the force of her grief; all he had ever heard her do was complain that her mother was selfish and uninterested in her. What he failed to understand was that Donna had to grieve not only over her mother’s death, but also over the fact that now she would never have the mother-daughter bond she had always wanted. Death had ended all her hopes.

For all children, mothers are their first love, their first acquaintance with intimacy, touch, warmth, tenderness, sustenance. Infancy is a conspiracy between mothers and their babies, a bond that fathers can only helplessly witness, denied the profound pleasure and pain of giving birth.

Soon she’ll start yelling, I thought, soon she’ll hit her, trying to break that bond. Instead, the bond will become more twisted, will strengthen in remorse, in the humiliation of having shown herself in public to be an unaffectionate mother, not the mother of church or the Sunday supplements.

Simply holding on to that tangible link between mother and daughter. A bond like no other. Irreplaceable. Unwavering. Old as time itself. There truly was nothing like the love of a mother. Unconditional. Solid. Indefinable and limitless. Capable of surviving anything. Able to triumph over the impossible.

Whether children bond with their parent at birth or later, they need this relationship. Without it, children have a much harder time developing a sense of who they are. Neglect and apathy from parents can lead to an increase in mental illness for the child and a lack of motivation to reach developmental milestones and independence.

Ari blinked back tears, squeezing her mother’s hand and holding on. Simply holding on to that tangible link between mother and daughter. A bond like no other. Irreplaceable. Unwavering. Old as time itself. There truly was nothing like the love of a mother. Unconditional. Solid. Indefinable and limitless. Capable of surviving anything. Able to triumph over the impossible. And

Now I understand Isabel's slavish loyalty to George. Now I understand the passionate bond between the king and the queen. Now I even understand the queen's mother Jacquetta dying of heartbreak at the loss of the man she married for love. I learn that to love a man whose interests are mine, whose passion is given freely and openly to me, and whose battle-hardened young lithe body lies beside me every night as his only joy, is to utterly change my life. I was married before; but I was never shaken and touched and puzzled and adored before. I was a wife but I was no lover. With Richard, I become wife and lover, counselor and friend, partner in all things, comrade in arms, fellow traveler. With Richard, I become a woman, not a girl, I become a wife.

The central fact of biblical history, the birth of the Messiah, more than any other, presupposes the design of Providence in the selecting and uniting of successive producers, and the real, paramount interest of the biblical narratives is concentrated on the various and wondrous fates, by which are arranged the births and combinations of the 'fathers of God.' But in all this complicated system of means, having determined in the order of historical phenomena the birth of the Messiah, there was no room for love in the proper meaning of the word. Love is, of course, encountered in the Bible, but only as an independent fact and not as an instrument in the process of the genealogy of Christ. The sacred book does not say that Abram took Sarai to wife by force of an ardent love, and in any case Providence must have waited until this love had grown completely cool for the centenarian progenitors to produce a child of faith, not of love. Isaac married Rebekah not for love but in accordance with an earlier formed resolution and the design of his father. Jacob loved Rachel, but this love turned out to be unnecessary for the origin of the Messiah. He was indeed to be born of a son of Jacob - Judah - but the latter was the offspring, not of Rachel but of the unloved wife, Leah. For the production in the given generation of the ancestor of the Messiah, what was necessary was the union of Jacob precisely with Leah; but to attain this union Providence did not awaken in Jacob any powerful passion of love for the future mother of the 'father of God' - Judah. Not infringing the liberty of Jacob's heartfelt feeling, the higher power permitted him to love Rachel, but for his necessary union with Leah it made use of means of quite a different kind: the mercenary cunning of a third person - devoted to his own domestic and economic interests - Laban. Judah himself, for the production of the remote ancestors of the Messiah, besides his legitimate posterity, had in his old age to marry his daughter-in-law Tamar. Seeing that such a union was not at all in the natural order of things, and indeed could not take place under ordinary conditions, that end was attained by means of an extremely strange occurrence very seductive to superficial readers of the Bible. Nor in such an occurrence could there be any talk of love. It was not love which combined the priestly harlot Rahab with the Hebrew stranger; she yielded herself to him at first in the course of her profession, and afterwards the casual bond was strengthened by her faith in the power of the new God and in the desire for his patronage for herself and her family. It was not love which united David's great-grandfather, the aged Boaz, with the youthful Moabitess Ruth, and Solomon was begotten not from genuine, profound love, but only from the casual, sinful caprice of a sovereign who was growing old.

Diabetes is a disease that separates warriors from the rest. There are no days off from it. At best it is manageable; at worst it’s the greatest weight and discouragement that can be felt. A person with diabetes is born with a special purpose. As someone who has walked this path, I see all the mothers, fathers, caregivers and those who struggle with the disease. I understand your pain and desire to give you hope. This bond connects us and serves as a support for those days I lose hope as well. You will never do it alone.

Jess and Polly stood without speaking, letting the sounds of the garden resettle. A flock of tiny fairy wrens darted busily in and around the base of a nearby plum tree, crickets ticked in the long grass, and a sense of timelessness, of nature, older and more pervasive than anything human beings and their histories could generate, grew thick and warm around them. "Shall we take a walk down together?" said Polly. Jess noticed a new note of self-possession in her mother's voice. Summery air threaded across the back of her neck, and she felt a pull, suddenly, deep inside her. She didn't know whether it was being here, in this place, or the beautiful weather that evoked long childhood days in which the hours stretched away to be filled only with pleasure, or the fact that it was Christmas Eve, or that her mother was standing here with her, solid and present in a way she hadn't been before, so that Jess was seeing her as if for the first time. But she felt a sensation in her chest that was quite the opposite of loneliness. "Are you with me?" Polly was searching Jess's face, waiting for an answer. Jess gave a nod and smiled. "I am.

Father reaches out to touch my scarf. “Your mother’s scarf,” he says softly. “She loved this so very much, you know. I remember her creative streak, how she refused to use the strong dye colours that we usually use for silk design. Instead, she preferred a shade of white, which would not sell as successfully in trade. She loved this scarf, the way it sat humbly around her neck and gave her senses of comfort and peace as she held you tight. You would often beg to wear it, Aisha.” I stroke the scarf subconsciously. A memory flashes in my mind of my mother’s shaking hands as she shaped spun silk into this beautiful scarf. My gentle mother, who coughed violently and shook, plagued she was with an illness that had deteriorated her immensely. I spent every moment I could with her, my heart knowing that each might be my last. “Beautiful Aisha, wear this scarf with your love,” said my mother one morning as she tied it around my neck. I stared at her, my lips wobbling as tears rolled down my cheeks. “I’ll wear it, always loving you, Mother,” I replied. My mother nodded, her eyes also filling with tears as she realised that I understood how little time we had left together.

Why are women so ungenerous to other women? Is it because we have been tokens for so long? Or is there a deeper animosity we owe it to ourselves to explore? A publisher...couldn't understand why women were so loath to help each other.... The notion flitted through my mind that somehow, by helping..., I might be hurting my own chances for something or other -- what I did not know. If there was room for only one woman poet, another space would be filled.... If I still feel I am in competition with other women, how do less well-known women feel? Terrible, I have to assume. I have had to train myself to pay as much attention to women at parties as to men.... I have had to force myself not to be dismissive of other women's creativity. We have been semi-slaves for so long (as Doris Lessing says) that we must cultivate freedom within ourselves. It doesn't come naturally. Not yet. In her writing about the drama of childhood developments, Alice Miller has created, among other things, a theory of freedom. in order to embrace freedom, a child must be sufficiently nurtured, sufficiently loved. Security and abundance are the grounds for freedom. She shows how abusive child-rearing is communicated from one generation to the next and how fascism profits from generations of abused children. Women have been abused for centuries, so it should surprise no one that we are so good at abusing each other. Until we learn how to stop doing that, we cannot make our revolution stick. Many women are damaged in childhood -- unprotected, unrespected, and treated with dishonesty. Is it any wonder that we build up vast defences against other women since the perpetrators of childhood abuse have so often been women? Is it any wonder that we return intimidation with intimidation, or that we reserve our greatest fury for others who remind us of our own weaknesses -- namely other women? Men, on the other hand, however intellectually condescending, clubbish, loutishly lewd, are rarely as calculatingly cruel as women. They tend, rather, to advance us when we are young and cute (and look like darling daughters) and ignore us when we are older and more sure of our opinions (and look like scary mothers), but they don't really know what they're doing. They are too busy bonding with other men, and creating male pecking orders, to pay attention to us. If we were skilled at compromise and alliance-building, we could transform society. The trouble is: we are not yet good at this. We are still quarrelling among ourselves. This is the crisis feminism faces today.

In some instances, even when crisis intervention has been intensive and appropriate, the mother and daughter are already so deeply estranged at the time of disclosure that the bond between them seems irreparable. In this situation, no useful purpose is served by trying to separate the mother and father and keep the daughter at home. The daughter has already been emotionally expelled from her family; removing her to protective custody is simply the concrete expression of the family reality. These are the cases which many agencies call their “tragedies.” This report of a child protective worker illustrates a case where removing the child from the home was the only reasonable course of action: Division of Family and Children’s Services received an anonymous telephone call on Sept. 14 from a man who stated that he overheard Tracy W., age 8, of [address] tell his daughter of a forced oral-genital assault, allegedly perpetrated against this child by her mother’s boyfriend, one Raymond S. Two workers visited the W. home on Sept. 17. According to their report, Mrs. W. was heavily under the influence of alcohol at the time of the visit. Mrs. W. stated immediately that she was aware why the two workers wanted to see her, because Mr. S. had “hurt her little girl.” In the course of the interview, Mrs. W. acknowledged and described how Mr. S. had forced Tracy to have relations with him. Workers then interviewed Tracy and she verified what mother had stated. According to Mrs. W., Mr. S. admitted the sexual assault, claiming that he was drunk and not accountable for his actions. Mother then stated to workers that she banished Mr. S. from her home. I had my first contact with mother and child at their home on Sept. 20 and I subsequently saw this family once a week. Mother was usually intoxicated and drinking beer when I saw her. I met Mr. S. on my second visit. Mr. S. denied having had any sexual relations with Tracy. Mother explained that she had obtained a license and planned to marry Mr. S. On my third visit, Mrs. W. was again intoxicated and drinking despite my previous request that she not drink during my visit. Mother explained that Mr. S. had taken off to another state and she never wanted to see him again. On this visit mother demanded that Tracy tell me the details of her sexual involvement with Mr. S. On my fourth visit, Mr. S. and Mrs. S. were present. Mother explained that they had been married the previous Saturday. On my fifth visit, Mr. S. was not present. During our discussion, mother commented that “Bay was not the first one who had Tracy.” After exploring this statement with mother and Tracy, it became clear that Tracy had been sexually exploited in the same manner at age six by another of Mrs. S.'s previous boyfriends. On my sixth visit, Mrs. S. stated that she could accept Tracy’s being placed with another family as long as it did not appear to Tracy that it was her mother’s decision to give her up. Mother also commented, “I wish the fuck I never had her.” It appears that Mrs. S. has had a number of other children all of whom have lived with other relatives or were in foster care for part of their lives. Tracy herself lived with a paternal aunt from birth to age five.

That night, I take Wallerstein's book from my bedside table and re-read something she mentioned only in passing: the ambivalence that many adult children of divorce feel about their obligation to their aging parents. So lasting are the effects of divorce, so disruptive to the bond between parent and child, that some of these children find that when the roles are reversed and it is their parents who now need them, they want to pay them back in kind. What they didn't get, they don't want to give. Yet even as I read this, I don't budge from what has become a personal mantra for me: Our parents do the best they can with what they have to work with, and we owe them the same.

Evidently she had been trying to calm the child for hours, without success, and was exhausted. Leaving the house, she had tried to clothe her daughter’s rage in a pretty dress, pretty shoes. She herself had put on a nice dress of a wine color that became her, she had pinned up her hair, wore earrings that grazed her pronounced jaw and swung against her long neck. She wanted to resist ugliness, cheer herself up. She had tried to see herself in the mirror as she had been before bringing that organism into the world, before condemning herself forever to adding it on to hers. But to what purpose. Soon she’ll start yelling, I thought, soon she’ll hit her, trying to break that bond. Instead, the bond will become more twisted, will strengthen in remorse, in the humiliation of having shown herself in public to be an unaffectionate mother, not the mother of church or the Sunday supplements.

This will not be a normal winter. The winter will begin, and it will continue, winter following winter. There will be no spring, no warmth. People will be hungry and they will be cold and they will be angry. Great battles will take place, all across the world. Brothers will fight brothers, fathers will kill sons. Mothers and daughters will be set against each other. Sisters will fall in battle with sisters, and will watch their children murder each other in their turn. This will be the age of cruel winds, the age of people who become as wolves, who prey upon each other, who are no better than wild beasts. Twilight will come to the world, and the places where the humans live will fall into ruins, flaming briefly, then crashing down and crumbling into ash and devastation. Then, when the few remaining people are living like animals, the sun in the sky will vanish, as if eaten by a wolf, and the moon will be taken from us too, and no one will be able to see the stars any longer. Darkness will fill the air, like ashes, like mist. This will be the time of the terrible winter that will not end, the Fimbulwinter. There will be snow driving in from all directions, fierce winds, and cold colder than you have ever imagined cold could be, an icy cold so cold your lungs will ache when you breathe, so cold that the tears in your eyes will freeze. There will be no spring to relieve it, no summer, no autumn. Only winter, followed by winter, followed by winter. After that there will come the time of the great earthquakes. The mountains will shake and crumble. Trees will fall, and any remaining places where people live will be destroyed. The earthquakes will be so great that all bonds and shackles and fetters will be destroyed. All of them. Fenrir, the great wolf, will free himself from his shackles. His mouth will gape: his upper jaw will reach the heavens, the lower jaw will touch the earth. There is nothing he cannot eat, nothing he will not destroy. Flames come from his eyes and his nostrils. Where Fenris Wolf walks, flaming destruction follows. There will be flooding too, as the seas rise and surge onto the land. Jormungundr, the Midgard serpent, huge and dangerous, will writhe in its fury, closer and closer to the land. The venom from its fangs will spill into the water, poisoning all the sea life. It will spatter its black poison into the air in a fine spray, killing all the seabirds that breathe it. There will be no more life in the oceans, where the Midgard serpent writhes. The rotted corpses of fish and of whales, of seals and sea monsters, will wash in the waves. All who see the brothers Fenrir the wolf and the Midgard serpent, the children of Loki, will know death. That is the beginning of the end.

— Mi-aş fi dorit să am şi eu ceva să-ţi las. Nu ceva atât de special ca o casă, dar măcar ceva, o părticică din mine care să fie cu tine mereu, a spus mama. [...] — Ai ceva ce poţi să-mi laşi. Ai o moştenire pentru mine, am spus. [...] Îmi laşi ceea ce ţi-a lăsat mama ta şi ce i-a lăsat mama ei. Îmi laşi sipetul cu nestemate. — Nestemate? a clipit ea nedumerită. — Nestemate... argintii şi strălucitoare, netede şi rotunde. Pietre care vor luci în lumina lunii chiar şi în nopţile cele mai întunecate. Mama a zâmbit şi m-a atins uşor pe picior, apoi a spus: — Ce nestemate, prostuţo? — Au cuvinte înscrise pe ele, mamă, iar eu, indiferent cât de pierdută sunt, pot să citesc cuvintele, pentru că nestematele strălucesc. Ele spun: "Vei fi puternică, fiindcă eu am fost puternică". Spun: "Vei trece peste orice supărare, pentru că eu am trecut peste orice supărare". Spun: "Vei fi plină de curaj şi de înţelepciune, pentru că eu am fost plină de curaj şi de înţelepciune, iar tu eşti fiica mea". Acestea sunt nestematele, mamă. Şi asta e moştenirea mea. A întins mâna şi a apucat-o pe a mea. M-a strâns cu putere, cu mâna tremurândă. A şoptit: — Da, da. Acele nestemate sunt pentru tine.

Poor Nesta’s been in the doghouse since you took their weapons and dumped us here,” Ember explained. “I tried telling Rhysand and Azriel how there’s no stopping you when you’ve got your mind set on something, and I think Feyre—Rhysand’s mate—believed me, but…” Ember glanced at Nesta and winced. “I apologize again for my daughter’s behavior.” “I made the choice to give her the Mask,” Nesta reminded Ember. To Bryce, she added wryly, “Your mother somehow doesn’t believe that I did so willingly.” Bryce rolled her eyes at her mother. “Great. Thanks for that.” She gestured to the portal shimmering behind them. “Shall we?” Ember smiled softly. “They’re truly gone, then.” “Gone, and never to be heard from again,” Bryce said, her heart lifting with the words. Ember’s eyes gleamed with tears, but she turned, taking Nesta’s hands and clenching them tightly in her own. “Despite the fact that my daughter lied and schemed and basically betrayed us…” she started. “Tell us how you really feel, Mom,” Bryce muttered, earning an amused sidelong glance from Nesta. But Ember continued, looking only at Nesta, “I am glad of one thing: that I was able to meet you.” Nesta’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she glanced down at their joined hands. Bryce cut in, if only to spare Nesta from her mom’s increasingly weepy-looking expression, “Next time I take on intergalactic evil, I’ll try to accommodate your bonding schedule.” Ember finally looked over at Bryce, glaring. “You and I are going to have words when we get home, Bryce Adelaide Quinlan.

You can have no idea what it feels like to live in an ordinary woman’s skin. From the moment a girl is born she is tutored by her mother on what she may and may not do. The list of what she is allowed to do keeps on shrinking as she grows older—cover your head, lower your neck, conceal your breasts, hide your ankles, don’t go to the river alone, don’t step out in the evening, don’t laugh loudly, don’t ask questions, don’t expect answers … Then she marries and it only gets worse. A mother-in-law takes over to enforce the rules. Wake up first, sleep last. Cook feasts, eat leftovers. Feed sons, starve daughters. And when finally she grows older and the baton passes on to her, she starts battering the next generation with it, having seen nothing else in her life!’ ‘So are you saying women oppress women?’ I was surprised that her tirade was directed at mothers and mothers-in-law rather than at men. ‘Yes, precisely. Why blame the men alone? Why will they try to change an existing order in which they get a bonded slave to cook their food, wash their clothes, clean their homes, warm their beds, look after their aging parents and bear them children? But what reason do women have? Why do they fall all over themselves to tyrannise other women? Women can rescue each other. Women can refuse to starve, scare and suppress their daughters. They can be friends and comrades with their daughters-in-law. Women can look out for the safety of their house maids and farm labourers. Women can insist that other women be treated with respect and dignity. But for that they first need to stop feeling helpless and scared themselves. They need to stop needing a man to protect them. The price of that protection is just too high.

My mother never seemed to listen to much music, but she loved Barbara Streisand, counting The Way We Were and Yentl as two of her favorite films. I remembered how we used to sing the song "Tell Him" together, and skipped through the album until I found it on track four. "Remember this?" I laughed, turning up the volume. It's a duet between Babe and Celine Dion, two powerhouse divas joining together for one epic track. Celine plays the role of a young woman afraid to confess her feelings to the man she loves, and Barbara is her confidant, encouraging her to take the plunge. "I'm scared, so afraid to show I care... Will he think me weak, if I tremble when I speak?" Celine begins. When I was a kid my mother used to quiver her lower lip for dramatic effect when she sang the word "tremble." We would trade verses in the living room. I was Barbara and she was Celine, the two of us adding interpretive dance and yearning facial expressions to really sell it. "I've been there, with my heart out in my hand..." I'd join in, a trail of chimes punctuating my entrance. "But what you must understand, you can't let the chance to love him pass you by!" I'd exclaim, prancing from side to side, raising my hand to urge my voice upward, showcasing my exaggerated vocal range. Then, together, we'd join in triumphantly. "Tell him! Tell him that the sun and moon rise in his eyes! Reach out to him!" And we'd ballroom dance in a circle along the carpet, staring into each other's eyes as we crooned along to the chorus. My mom let out a soft giggle from the passenger seat and we sang quietly the rest of the way home. Driving out past the clearing just as the sun went down, the scalloped clouds flushed with a deep orange that made it look like magma.

Why the Leaves Change Colour The first girl who was ever born with amber skin was Mother Nature’s own child. Her birth was from a seed Mother Nature planted in the darkest, purest, most fertile soil, and soon there was a flower, and the flower opened up to show the most beautiful little girl imaginable. One day when the little girl was playing, the Sky, who was her brother, jealous of how lovely she was and how happy and distracted their mother had been since she was born, stole her and placed her upon a star so far away from the earth, Mother Nature could not get to her. In her grief, Mother Nature took every leaf that existed on Earth and turned them amber. The baby girl raised herself on this star—after all, she was her mother’s child, fortitude became her. She became majestic, and independent, and knew how to cope with anything alone because she had always only known alone. When the girl was finally old enough to explore the universe by itself, she travelled across the stars, finding beauty in thousands of planets, but none where she really felt at home. Until, that is, she came upon a beautiful blue planet with amber leaves. Walking through golden leaves, she remembered who she was, and who her mother was, for this is the magic of the bond children have with their mothers. They will remember them even if they are millions of miles away; why do you think good mothers can say things like ‘I love you all the way around the universe’ and you just know they mean it and know not to question it? When Mother Nature felt in her bones that her child had returned, she took her into her arms and turned all the leaves to green again. But because the leaves of amber gold were how her girl found her again, it happens every single year in commemoration. We call it a season. We named it after Mother Nature’s only daughter. We called it Autumn.

A fight with her mother? It was certainly within the realm of possibility, I guessed. Elizabeth was a teenager and her mother was ... well, her mother. Normally they were the best of friends, but even best friends fight.

She understood that becoming a nun was a lifetime commitment. Testing her daughter’s resolve was wise. The Koehler family together, 1923 First Homes As an adult, I visited Rosie’s first home at 83 Beals Street in Brookline, Massachusetts, to get a sense of her early life and that of her famous family. The compact Victorian residence stands three stories tall on a small lot in the Boston suburb. It was easy to picture the young Kennedy children playing in the back yard. Rose Kennedy wrote in Times to Remember, her 1974 autobiography: “It was a nice old wooden-frame house with clapboard siding; seven rooms, plus two small ones in the converted attic, all on a small lot with a few bushes and trees . . . about twenty-five minutes from the center of the city by trolley.” 5 The family home on Beals Street is now the John Fitzgerald Kennedy National Historic Site, run by the National Park Service. From the deep browns and reds of the rugs on the hardwood floors to the homey couch and chairs, the home felt warm and comfortable to me. I suppressed a desire to kick off my sandals and flop on the sofa. The Kennedys’ house on Beals Street, Rosie’s first home But my perspective as a child would have triggered a different impression. I would have whispered to my mother, “They’re rich!” (I’ve since discovered that money isn’t the only measure of wealth. There’s wealth in memories, too.) A lovely grand piano occupies one corner of the Kennedys’ old living room. It was a wedding gift to Rose Kennedy from her uncles, and she delighted in playing her favorite song, “Sweet Adeline,” on it. Although her children took piano lessons, Mrs. Kennedy lamented that her own passion never ignited a similar spark in any of her daughters. She did often ask Rosemary to perform, however. I see an image of Rosemary declaring she couldn’t, her hands stretching awkwardly across the keys. But her mother encouraged Rosie to practice, confident she’d

Love one another…as members of one family…. —Romans 12:10 (AMP) I sometimes brood about my mothering days when my children were young. Observing other mothers with their children now, I realize how simple it would have been to have bent over to their level more, hugged more, and said to each of them more often, “I love you.” Now I was certain it was too late. Recently, my daughter Julie was going through a difficult day. As she left my house, we stood at the back door, saying good-bye. Suddenly, she threw her arms around me, and I grabbed her tight. “I love you, Mother.” “I love you too, Julie.” “It’s so good to hear you say it, Mother.” “I thought you were too old.” I tightened my grip. Julie shed her tears openly. Mine got stuck somewhere down inside of me. “You didn’t say it much when we were little,” she whispered so softly, I could have missed the words. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Julie. Can you forgive me?” She nodded, unable to speak. “Thank you, Julie Babe.” “I want to hear them, Mother. I always did.” Still holding my daughter, I spoke the words again. So did she. The powerful words went straight to my heart and rested there like a contented kitten. Now, each time we end a telephone conversation or say good-bye in person, we add “I love you,” simultaneously. Oh, my Father, I’ve neglected to speak the words to You too. Thank You that it's never too late to change. I love You. I love You. —Marion Bond West Digging Deeper: Lk 6:31; Eph 4:32, 6:4

My drive to procreate was not in response to the “when will we hear the good news?” type of questions from well-meaning friends and relatives. My longing was rooted in biology, hidden in a place where logic could not enter. I wanted a child, so I could be a mother, like her. I had seen the close bond she shared with her own mother, the friendship they shared, over and above their genetic connection. I wanted that.

As always, the dosas were perfect, crisp and lacy, and the unusual chef's addition of the habanero chutney made Naina's mouth burn in the best way. She'd inherited her ability to tolerate spice from her mother. Dr. Kohli was something of a wimp in this department, and so naturally Naina and her mother only ever ate the truly hot stuff when he wasn't around. "Never make people feel bad when you're better at something than they are," her mother had said with an unfamiliar amount of glee one night at dinner when her husband had been on call and she'd made the potato bhujia with enough red chili powder to make even Naina and her break into a sweat.

Losing a child breaks something fundamental in a mother, but it doesn't rob her of her ability to care, connect and love.

As expected, her chicken was crispy and flavorful. The skin yielded to expose the juicy chicken meat underneath. The sweet and spicy sauce tickled and tingled my tongue with a small amount of heat. I smiled at the camera and said, "Umma, this is amazing." My hot chicken wasn't as crunchy as Mom's, but the pieces still maintained crispiness despite being moistened by the marinade. Hot, tangy, and less sticky, my breasts and wings were tasty and had a kick to them thanks to the cayenne pepper. "Oh wow. This is super tasty too! This spicy coating doesn't work as a dipping sauce though, so you're stuck with the heat level.

Whenever she was visiting home, Agnes's daughter said that she wanted the two of them to cook together. The deliberation of it struck Agnes as odd. It was obvious that they would cook - how could they not? - but the statement made it forced, if not artificial. Her daughter suggested lengthy recipes for foods that carried an idea of old times: jams, pies, roasted meats. She took photographs as they cooked. Once or twice, Agnes had come across these photographs on her daughter's social media pages, with a line or two about the mother-daughter bond. She didn't know how to point out the insincerity to her daughter, who was part of a generation of educated women that paid rapt attention to the things that gave them pleasure and turned them into rituals for display... The simplest acts, Agnes thought, the very fabric of life had spun out of proportion, expanded to grotesque magnitudes of egocentricity, just like old paintings, restored with too bright colours, that los the subtleties of their initial expressions.

Do you wish I’d given you to some rich people to raise like that Falcon girl?” Margie thought about the fancy house and swimming pool and gardens and horses. Then she thought about the single-wide at the Arroyo where she and her mom lived, and the kitchen where Mama went to make sandwiches every morning. She thought about giggles and snuggles at bedtime, dancing to “Waltz Across Texas” and jumping into the chilly clear water at Barton Springs on a hot day, and how she loved the sound of her mother’s laughter, and she couldn’t imagine any other life. “Nah,” she said, thinking of the girls in the mansion. “I reckon those two sisters didn’t seem any happier or sadder than any other kid. And their mom was scary.” “You’re an old soul, Seesaw Marjorie Daw. I’m glad you’re mine.

I was intrigued. Young people like Amanda are not often best friends with their mothers. And yet the affection between them was clear. Sensing also, however, her mother’s disapproval of Amanda’s lifestyle, I asked what was the bond that had allowed her to remain close to her mother. Amanda replied, “For as long as I can remember, every night of my life I end the day by getting in bed with my mother and snuggling.” Amanda’s relationship with her mother is quite remarkable, and is in large part responsible for the fact that she has now left behind what she describes as her “black period” and is finding her way through adolescence in a relatively healthy manner. Amanda knew that she was deeply loved just exactly as she was. Her mother disapproved of her use of drugs, her promiscuous sex, her astoundingly profane language, her Satanic practices and most other aspects of her lifestyle. But with a wisdom that I have rarely seen in parents, she recognized that what her daughter needed was not lectures but love. Fortunately, she had been giving this in large doses for all of Amanda’s life. Equally fortunately, she did not now allow her disapproval of her daughter’s behavior to interrupt this pattern in the slightest. Amanda’s mother offered a truly transforming love—transforming because while it could be resisted, it could not be received without profound psychospiritual impact.

Because the bond between a mother and son is a special one. It remains unchanged by time or distance. It is the purest love – unconditional and true. It is understanding of any situation. And forgiving of any mistake.

The day before my wedding, I was in my room at my dad's getting ready for the rehearsal dinner as my thoughts drifted back to the reunion between Chelsea and Victoria. After our near Guinness-record-breaking group hug, Trace and I sat with Victoria for almost five hours talking. It had been heartbreaking to witness the pain in Victoria’s eyes as Trace recounted the events leading up to the accident and Chelsea’s condition. Like mother, like son, Victoria blamed herself while fervently telling Trace that he was not at fault. None of it mattered when the two women actually met and, though thirteen years had passed, the bond between mother and daughter was still there. In the two weeks since, the three of them had gotten to know each other and had become a family reconnected.

Letter-writing is an art form everywhere in the world, but particularly on Nantucket, where sons and mothers, fathers and daughters, husbands and wives, separated by oceans, rely on pen and paper to keep their bonds alive.

The journey from girl to woman is a tapestry of roles—daughter, sister, wife, mother, grandmother—each thread woven with love, wisdom, and the strength that defines her remarkable life. Her love as a daughter is the foundation, as a sister, the unbreakable bond, as a wife, the pillar of support, and as a mother, the endless wellspring of nurturing care. It's a love that knows no bounds, evolving and adapting with each role she embraces.

The journey from girl to woman is a tapestry of roles—daughter, sister, wife, mother, grandmother—each thread woven with love, wisdom, and the strength that defines her remarkable life. Her love as a daughter is the foundation, as a sister, the unbreakable bond, as a wife, the pillar of support, and as a mother, the endless wellspring of nurturing care. It's a love that knows no bounds, evolving and adapting with each role she embraces.

Imagine for a moment what the brain must do to ignore (and eventually prune) the neurological processes that identify a dangerous mother? It must compartmentalize fear somewhere outside your consciousness so that bonding can happen. Over time, the brain shrinks danger signals, like a mother’s shrill voice or furrowed brow, so you can tolerate her proximity. Pruning alters perception and protects you when you are small and dependent, but over time, your innate ability to detect or discern risky situations is twisted. In this way, neuroception is altered, which is why exposure to early betrayal puts you at a greater risk of further victimization. Maternal abuse is a devastating betrayal because not only do you miss out on essential nurturance, protection, and guidance, but your neuroception and protective instincts are also damaged.

Mom was released from jail on bond and prosecuted for a domestic violence misdemeanor. The case depended entirely on me. Yet during the hearing, when asked if Mom had ever threatened me, I said no. The reason was simple: My grandparents were paying a lot of money for the town’s highest-powered lawyer. They were furious with my mother, but they didn’t want their daughter in jail, either. The lawyer never explicitly encouraged dishonesty, but he did make it clear that what I said would either increase or decrease the odds that Mom spent additional time in prison. “You don’t want your mom to go to jail, do you?” he asked. So I lied, with the express understanding that even though Mom would have her liberty, I could live with my grandparents whenever I wished. Mom would officially retain custody, but from that day forward I lived in her house only when I chose to—and Mamaw told me that if Mom had a problem with the arrangement, she could talk to the barrel of Mamaw’s gun. This was hillbilly justice, and it didn’t fail me.

Did you think that was supposed to make it all better? What daughter doesn’t need her mother? I always needed you, but I never wanted to be a burden to you because you were always wrapped up in what Ri needed. I never hated you or her for that it just was what it was, but your solution for our lack of a bond was to make me feel less than just so I would finally lean on you? And then you sit here and you say that with your whole chest like it’s okay and you think I’m gonna forgive you just like that?” She’s got me fucked up if she thinks we’re about to hug it out like a happy family.

A woman who has felt rejected by her mother because of adoption, illness, depression, or escape into alcohol will feel deeply unmothered and will continue to look for what she never had. She may function forever as a “daughter” looking for approval, love, attention, and acceptance from a mother who is incapable of giving these. If she experienced her mother as either absent or too busy to mother her, she may set out in search of a positive female role model, perhaps an older woman with whom she can bond.

Though wildly different in both character and tastes, Jane and Mary shared a common bond aside from the royal blood which flowed in their veins: their religious devotion was unswerving, and the dominant factor in both of their lives. For Mary, the situation was heartbreaking. Jane's mother, Frances, had been a close childhood companion. Frances, like her husband and her daughter, was a Protestant, though perhaps not as fervent in her faith as her husband and eldest daughter. Despite the fact that she and Mary were on opposing sides of the religious fence, to all appearances their differing beliefs had never driven a wedge between the cousins. Frances was a seasoned courtier, and as such she was well skilled in the art of diplomacy. It seems likely, therefore, that when she was in the company of her childhood friend, the two women tactfully avoided conversing on the subject of religion. After all, there were many at court who managed to maintain friendships with people who held differing religious beliefs, and Mary had also been friendly with Jane's step-grandmother, Katherine Willoughby. But it was quite different with jane, for though Mary had tried her best with the teenager, and had done her utmost to be affectionate, the relationship was not a harmonious one. The age gap between them meant that to Jane, Mary was probably more like an aunt than a cousin. Mary may have been twenty years Jane's senior, but it was not age that lay at the heart of the matter; the reason for the distance between the two cousins was perfectly simple: religion.

Sadly, in service to bonding, these necessary brain changes create long-term personality problems. Surviving Third-Degree Mother Hunger may have left you with automatic dissociative patterns, chronic shame, and the propensity to land in relationships with others who betray you.

Imagine for a moment what the brain must do to ignore (and eventually prune) the neurological processes that identify a dangerous mother? It must compartmentalize fear somewhere outside your consciousness so that bonding can happen. Over time, the brain shrinks danger signals, like a mother’s shrill voice or furrowed brow, so you can tolerate her proximity. Pruning alters perception and protects you when you are small and dependent, but over time, your innate ability to detect or discern risky situations is twisted. In this way, neuroception is altered, which is why exposure to early betrayal puts you at a greater risk of further victimization. Maternal abuse is a devastating betrayal because not only do you miss out on essential nurturance, protection, and guidance, but your neuroception and protective instincts are also damaged. Since you are adapted to danger, situations that would frighten a regular person don’t raise a red flag for you. You know how to bond with others who may betray you.

The middle daughter, Sami, eventually returned to live in her hometown, the same small coastal Washington town where everything happened. She’s just turned forty and teaches at a local elementary school. She has corkscrew hair and an infectious sense of humor. Humor is her armor. It always has been. Like her older sister, Sami’s own children are what any mother dreams for their little ones. Smart. Adventurous. Loved.

There was only so much a mother could ask a daughter to bear before that bond became bondage.

The site appears desolate. The temple can barely be distinguished from the other ruins. Only those who know can imagine that this was once one of the most important ritual centers in all of Greece. A single phrase runs through my mind, 'So much has been lost, so much has been destroyed.' I find myself thinking how different our world might had been if we had known a religion that celebrated womanhood and our bonds with our mothers, our daughters. We come to Eleusis to remember that once there was a time when we were not despised, when we did not learn to despise ourselves. The desecration of the site makes us feel in our bodies the desecration of ourselves. A solemnity overtakes us as we try to imagine how much has been lost, how much we have lost. from "Eleusinian Mysteries" featured in The Goddess Celebrates: an Anthology of Women's Rituals, Edited by Diane Stein, published in 1991.

Joining hands in a women's circle we meditate on our coming together as women, something that is not so easy to do in our culture. 'We have come together as women to learn about our history and to create a community. And so it is appropriate that we come to this place, where the bonds of women with women, mother with daughter, daughter with mother, were celebrated. We come with a sense of new beginning, and we call on ancient Goddesses to give us strength.' From "Eleusinian Mysteries" featured in The Goddess Celebrates: an Anthology of Women's Rituals, Edited by Diane Stein, published in 1991.

Sassuma’s threat to behead Sunjata also targets his mother Sogolon Kedju, his sister Sogolon Kolokon, and his half-brother Manden Bukari (or Manding Bori), son of Maghan Kon Fatta’s third wife Namanje (of legendary beauty and daughter of the “king of the Kamaras”), a marriage strengthening the alliance between the Kamaras and the Keitas. Destined to be the right hand “of some mighty king,” oralists assert Manden Bukari becomes Sunjata’s best friend, and that they form a close bond with Fran Kamara of Tabon and Kamanjan (or Nan Koman Jan) of Sibi, with whom they grow up.

Have you eaten dinner? I made some varan bhaat." Now she felt stupid. Boiled rice and dal was the only thing she knew how to cook. But like her, Ashna had loved the simple comfort food as a child. Maybe it was Shobi's imagination, but a sparkle broke through the weariness in Ashna's eyes. "Varan bhaat?" But she got a hold of herself. "I didn't have ghee in the house." Shobi went to the kitchen and Ashna followed her with her usual tentativeness. "I made some." Shobi popped the two bowls she had mixed into the microwave. "Ghee, now that I know how to make. I used to love the smell when our cook made it when I was little. So she showed me how to. Of course, she used to churn the butter from the cream first; I just walked down to the store and bought butter." Shobi put the bowl of rice and lentils mixed in with ghee and fresh lemon juice in front of Ashi. For the next few minutes- the first peaceful minutes she'd shared with her daughter since she'd arrived- the two of them ate, letting the sticky, wholesome goodness melt on their tongues and stick to their palates and fill their mouths with that internal hug of a cherished comfort food.

Our mother-daughter bonding was cut short by the sound of the doorbell. Mom turned, and without a second glance, raced downstairs. Dad had already let them in, Rose Marie…and Chad. He was holding her suitcase; she was holding his hand with her other hand resting on her stomach. I did a double take. Was Rose Marie, my perfect sister, getting fat? My dad swore. My mom wailed like a baby. I thought, “Hey, parents, chill, it’s just the freshman fifteen. Lots of students gain weight their first year in college.” Then it hit me.

It was her concern and commitment to a friend which last year involved her in perhaps the most emotional period of her life. For five months she secretly helped to care for Adrian Ward-Jackson who had discovered that he was suffering from AIDS. It was a time of laughter, joy and much sorrow as Adrian, a prominent figure in the world of art, ballet and opera, gradually succumbed to his illness. A man of great charisma and energy, Adrian initially found it difficult to come to terms with his fate when in the mid-1980s he was diagnosed as HIV positive. His word as deputy chairman of the Aids Crisis Trust, where he first met the Princess, had made him fully aware of the reality of the disease. Finally he broke the news in 1987 to his great friend Angela Serota, a dancer with the Royal Ballet until a leg injury cut short her career and now prominent in promoting dance and ballet. For much of the time, Angela, a woman of serenity and calm practicality, nursed Adrian, always with the support of her two teenage daughters. He was well enough to receive a CBE at Buckingham Palace in March 1991 for his work in the arts--he was a governor of the Royal Ballet, chairman of the Contemporary Arts Society and a director of the Theatre Museum Association--and it was at a celebratory lunch held at the Tate Gallery that Angela first met the Princess. In April 1991 Adrian’s condition deteriorated and he was confined to his Mayfair apartment where Angela was in almost constant attendance. It was from that time that Diana made regular visits, once even brining her children Princes Willian and Harry. From that time Angela and the Princess began to forge a supportive bond as they cared for their friend. Angela recalls: “I thought she was utterly beautiful in a very profound way. She has an inner spirit which shines forth though there was also a sense of pervasive unhappiness about her. I remember loving the way she never wanted me to be formal.” When Diana brought the boys to see her friends, a reflection of her firmly held belief that her role as mother is to bring them up in a way that equips them for every aspect of life and death, Angela saw in William a boy much older and more sensitive than his years. She recalls: “He had a mature view of illness, a perspective which showed awareness of love and commitment.” At first Angela kept in the background, leaving Diana alone in Adrian’s room where they chatted about mutual friends and other aspects of life. Often she brought Angela, whom she calls “Dame A”, a gift of flowers or similar token. She recalls: “Adrian loved to hear about her day-to-day work and he loved too the social side of life. She made him laugh but there was always the perfect degree of understanding, care and solicitude. This is the point about her, she is not just a decorative figurehead who floats around on a cloud of perfume.” The mood in Mount Street was invariably joyous, that sense of happiness that understands about pain. As Angela says: “I don’t see death as sad or depressing. It was a great journey he was going on. The Princess was very much in tune with that spirit. She also loved coming for herself, it was an intense experience. At the same time Adrian was revitalized by the healing quality of her presence.” Angela read from a number of works by St. Francis of Assisi, Kahil Gibran and the Bible as well as giving Adrian frequent aromatherapy treatments. A high spot was a telephone call from Mother Teresa of Calcutta who also sent a medallion via Indian friends. At his funeral they passed Diana a letter from Mother Teresa saying how much she was looking forward to meeting her when she visited India. Unfortunately Mother Teresa was ill at that time so the Princess made a special journey to Rome where she was recuperating. Nonetheless that affectionate note meant a great deal to the Princess.

These days her family, particularly her sisters, Jane and Sarah and brother Charles, are aware of the appalling problems she has endured. Jane has always given sensible advice and Sarah, from being dubious of her kid sister’s success, is now very protective. “You never criticize Diana in front of her,” notes a friend. Her relations with her mother and her father, when he was alive, are patchier. While Diana enjoys a sporadic but affectionate relationship with her mother, she was robust in her reaction to news that her second husband, Peter Shand Kydd had left her for another woman. Last summer her bond with her father went through a difficult period following publicity surrounding the secret sale of treasures from Althorp House. The children, including the Princess, had written to their father objecting to the trade in family heirlooms. There were bitter exchanges, subsequently regretted, which deeply hurt the Princess of Wales. Even the Prince of Wales intervened, voicing his concern to Raine Spencer who was typically robust in her response. Last autumn a reconciliation between father and daughter was effected. During a leisurely tour around the world the late Earl Spencer was deeply touched by the affection shown towards his youngest daughter by so many strangers. He telephoned from America to tell her just how proud of her that made him feel.

You about ready for some input?” Noah asked. “It’s free advice, and you’re under no obligation.” “Go for it,” Sean said. “Forget all that—it’s in the past. You’ll work through it, hopefully without hurting each other. Right now? Get to know your daughter. It’s the most important part of this whole drama. Get to know Rosie. Whether you want to be a father or not, you are one, so press on—start a relationship with her right away. Both of you have been missing out.” “How’m I gonna do that?!” “Show up. Talk to her. Play with her. I let Ellie’s daughter put ribbons and clips and stuff in my hair. It’s a bonding experience for us both—I get to look stupid and she gets control.” “What if she asks…?” “Tell her before she asks,” Noah advised. “If you know for sure you’re her father, you better tell her the second you meet her. There’s a period of adjustment for both of you. Get started on it. All that stuff that went before? That separated you from Franci? You don’t have to work on that with Rosie. You and Franci will work that out. I’m available if you need me. I can help with that.” Sean just stared at him for a long moment, silent. Finally he asked, “Do you really know what you’re doing here?” “I do,” Noah said. “I actually studied and practiced counseling before the seminary. I have a degree and everything.” “What am I going to tell Luke?” “Everything or nothing,” Noah said. “The most important thing right now is not what you tell other people, it’s what you tell Rosie. She’s a little girl. Whether she knows it or not, she wants a father. She needs a father. You’re that person. Good luck—you’re going to have to learn fast to fully understand what that means.” “The next person who needs to know about this has to be my mother. In case you haven’t noticed, my mother is a very strong woman with very firm ideas.” “I’m not as good with mothers,” Noah admitted. “You’ll be fine. I bet she loves you.” Sean shook his head. “It never kept her from whacking me in the back of the head if I didn’t do what she liked. Strict. My mother was strict. All five of us were altar boys. She’s wanted grandchildren for a long, long time. The fact that she’s had one for this long without knowing? Oh, man, I’m never going to hear the end of that.” Noah chuckled. “Just duck,” he advised. *

the bond between mother and daughter was so strong in the beginning that it functioned as both a shackle and a lifeline.

pushed for a more thorough search of his grounds and for Lionel to give more information about why Clara didn't make it home that night. But between him and Clara's mother, Stella, I could get nothing from them. The bond between their families is iron clad. Even Stella wasn't forthcoming with information about her own daughter. In fact, the only one who seemed devastated by the loss of Clara, was her brother, Lance Orion.