Best 20 quotes in «mother daughter relationship quotes» category

De pronto la miro y ya no está. Vuelvo a mirarla, la define su ausencia. Ha ido a unirse a lago que le da fuerza y no sé lo que es. No puedo seguirla, no entiendo hacia qué espacio invisible se ha dirigido, qué aire inefable la resguarda y la aísla; desde luego ya no está en el mundo y por más que manoteo no me ve, permanece siempre fuera de mi alcance. Sé que mi amor la sustenta, claro, pero su ausencia es sólo suya y en ella no tengo cabida.

Back home, my mother would still impulsively choose my clothes as she'd chosen my name. But all the identities she'd chosen for me felt wrong, now. I could not return to the person she'd picked for me to be. My relationship with my mother trapped me in the identity of a child.

And in the night, when my coughing was dry and tough, feet padded into my room, hands repinned the flannel, readjusted the quilt, and rested a moment on my forehead. So when I think of Autumn, I think of someone with hands who does not want me to die.

I loved my mother, but oftentimes, I wondered if I liked her. I wondered if she wasn’t my mom if I’d like her as a fellow human.

Here was what I wanted to happen when I walked through the door after my first real date and my first ever kiss. I wanted my mom to say, “Dear God, Meg, you’re glowing. Sit and tell me about this boy. He let you borrow his jacket? That’s so adorable.” Instead, I came off the high of that day by writing a letter to my dead brother and doing yoga between my twin beds, trying to forget my absent mother.

Indeed, she had the whole of the other sex under her protection; for reasons she could not explain, for their chivalry and valour, for the fact that they negotiated treaties, ruled India, controlled finance; finally for an attitude towards herself which no woman could fail to feel or to find agreeable, something trustful, childlike, reverential; which an old woman could take from a young man without loss of dignity, and woe betide the girl––pray Heaven it was none of her daughters!––who did not feel the worth of it, and all that it implied, to the marrow of her bones!

She was so wicked. Such a classic case of resentment and ambivalence bumping and brushing up against all that maternal instinct. The love and hate in her was as vast as space- all meteors, no atmosphere.

I was playing a new part in a new play: the messed-up adult child coming home in a truly pitiful state in the back of her parents’ luxury sedan. It was a glorious suburban homecoming.

She had not told her mother about Denys, but she had a suspicion that Mrs. Shannon knew all about it nevertheless. It was unlike her not to want to satisfy her curiosity when she came upon her daughter sobbing in various parts of the house. She had asked no questions; she had simply donned the role of the heavily understanding mother, and had done a lot of shoulder-patting and given Mary an expensive evening dress from the shop. Mary had no idea how she knew, but was certain that if she had not known she would never have rested until she did.

Mothers are programmed to teach the fit. They are unequipped to listen to pleas, to alter their patterns. Mothers know how to nurse and nurture those who they have hope for—they coo over babies with infections they can help heal, they give advice for things they know, they protect from the dangers they know how to fear. But once their baby becomes so hurt the mother doesn't know how to heal her, she neglects because she doesn't know better. The tricks she knows don't work, she fears, and, eventually, when she is so lost she feels hopeless, she abandons.

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.

Those who are close to us, when they die, divide our world. There is the world of the living, which we finally, in one way or another, succumb to, and then there is the domain of the dead that, like an imaginary friend (or foe) or a secret concubine, constantly beckons, reminding us of our loss. What is memory but a ghost that lurks at the corners of the mind, interrupting our normal course of life, disrupting our sleep in order to remind us of some acute pain or pleasure, something silenced or ignored? We miss not only their presence, or how they felt about us, but ultimately how they allowed us to feel about ourselves or them. (prologue)

The debt between a child and her mother could never be repaid, like running a foot race against someone fifteen miles ahead of you. What hope did you have of catching up?

The weaving of life between mother and daughter is just like the making of a basket. As time goes by, the interlacing takes shape and becomes stronger.

Sometimes, in the stillness of my room, my mom’s voice came to me, repeating things she’d said for months. Like, “My skin is melting off my face, isn’t it?” And, “My whole body feels dead from the crap they’re pouring into me. Do I look green to you?” And, “When I’m naked, I can see my heart beating.

The daughter can become the mother's opportunity either to make up for the past and right wrongs or to exact retribution for her losses. The mother's own experience of the long-ago family serves as an overlay to her mothering: Past and present are inextricably intertwined.

There is a world of chances out there, Emmaline! We live in a world full of amazing chances, and you just walk away from them without even looking back.

They both began to giggle and then they fell into a side splitting round of laughter, the cleansing, complete sort of laughter only a mother and daughter can share.

What else happened?' she asked, not because she was particularly interested, but because one must talk to one's mother when she came to visit one, however tired and dispirited one felt.

Winning is a matter of endurance. As long as you don't quit, you will win!