vittoria

5%
Flag icon
My mum smiled fondly as my cousins giggled in the background, but a small frown creased her forehead as she explained to me that I couldn’t actually be a cat or a pony or a butterfly. I was a girl, and that meant that I’d grow up to be a woman. Woman. I let the word pass quickly and inconsequentially over me like a bad smell.
The Opposite of Butterfly Hunting: The Tragedy and the Glory of Growing Up
Rate this book
Clear rating
Open Preview