The Perfumist of Paris (The Jaipur Trilogy, #3)

by Alka Joshi

“Being a woman is difficult. I can see why my mother didn’t like her own gender. We can do so much. Give so much. But not everyone wants what we’re offering. And in the end, we’re left with…pieces of a whole. Shards. Splinters. Chips. Pick them up, they cut our hands. Leave them on the ground, they cut our feet. It’s hard for us to just walk away.”

Is that erasure of us something other people do to us or do we women do it to ourselves?