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Kindle Notes & Highlights
They say all the cells in your body regenerate every seven years. When I turned twenty, my father had been dead for eight—so if that theory is true, no cell in my body had ever been on the planet at the same time as him. I’d changed, cell by cell, into a person he never knew.
I wrote about how much I missed him and how I still couldn’t comprehend the fact that I would never, ever see him again—not even when I needed him most. Not even when I was grown up and had children of my own, his grandchildren, who would never get to hear him read a Grimms’ fairy tale or learn from him how to use watercolors with a light, decisive hand so they don’t get muddy. Once it was all on the page, I still missed him just as much, but I felt a little less like I was choking.
