Like A Mother Book Novels & Stories

I said, mostly to myself because certainly Kaiden could have figured that out on his own. “From that look on your face I'm guessing this place holds a lot of memories for you,” said Kaiden, already by the lone desk and chair, flipping through a large tome with a hand-embroidered leather cover. I nodded. “It does. But I don't want to waste your time talking about the past. Let's just do what we came here for before it gets extremely difficult for us to pretend like we just went on some harmless exploration.” “My mother used to say that you should never overlook a place full of books. That usually, they hold answers to questions we never even knew they had.”

[Apple] Carefully removing the items from their hiding spot, my fingers touch the leather spine of my mother's book, a book that I've never seen before but seems more familiar than the back of my hand. My mind is a confusion of memories that seem like someone else's dreams, moments long forgotten and trapped deep within. Finding this book and mirror, feeling their weight in my hands, is a key unlocking a door in my mind behind which a wealth of memories have been stored. Memories of my mother and I.

Used across generations by women in situations requiring a particular kind of management. The book described it in the detached language of an older time. I read between that language and found what I needed. It would work. If my mother's bottle was what I thought it was and I was increasingly certain it was it would work for exactly the purpose required. I put the book back exactly where I'd found it and went back to the compound and opened my drawer and looked at the bottle with something I hadn't felt in weeks. Something that was almost like a plan.

I hope im able to get over this feeling soon as I have made a promise to my mother. Please rate and comment on main page. Thank you for reading my book

“Finding The Spouse You Married.” I would have laughed had my heart not randomly started aching for her. This beautiful woman, full of love and interesting stories and lessons to pass on, was reading some bullshit self-help book on how to make my dad treat her the way she wanted to be treated. It was sickening, and yet very telling of what my mother must’ve gone through with Dad. I wondered if she’d ever tried reading books to fix what had become so broken. “Want me to read you a page? The anecdotal stories are pretty funny.”

"It does not look like I'm a teen anymore, I'm an adult, I don't even age. " I confessed my feelings my mother held my hand. " You're wrong honey, you're allowed to do whatever you want in love, love whoever whenever you want, no one is going to blame you. " " Alright mother. " She shivered, and as I was stunned, I smiled awkwardly. " You just sounded like my mother, she lives far away from here. " She smiled as we finally arrived at my house which I remembered as before. Burned to the ground. " Do you believe the book would be safe in this bull of dust? "

“Rachel is your childhood friend, and she knows everything about you. She’s definitely better than the other woman outside.” “Not necessarily. You can’t judge a book by its cover, after all,” Matthew sneered. He clearly knew what kind of person Rachel was. As he thought of how his mother praised Rachel for being gentle and kind, Matthew’s heart began to beat frantically. Was his mother not a gentle and kind person too?

She seems nervous. I frown, "Okay, Mom." She opens the door to a room, and I'm speechless, it's not white, it's a deep maroon color. The room is bigger than Lacey's, and that's something I didn't think could be possible. There's a sofa in the corner and beside it is a small bookcase. Walking into the room, I walk over to the bookcase and run my fingers across the spines of the books that are there. Mom went all out. She bought books from my favorite authors. Nora Roberts, Harper Sloan, Carly Phillips, and of course E.L. James. I love the story of Christian and Ana, it's such a beautiful love story.

The youngest giggled nervously, toes sinking slightly as if into mud. “Like Mama,” she said. The middle child shook violently. “No,” he whispered. “Not like her. She stayed with words. It wants more now.” The eye beneath the floor shifted, rolling slowly beneath the wood. Wherever it passed, the hut creaked in pleasure. “Blood ends hunger,” the voice murmured. “Blood makes home.” Memories surged again — not visions this time, but feelings. Lerato’s exhaustion. Her fear. Her love sharpened into desperation. She had bargained for shelter, for safety, for time.

Just me, my books, and the soft sound of my daughter’s breathing as she napped in her room. I curled up on the couch with a book about raising children, the pages worn from how often I flipped through them. Motherhood didn’t come naturally to me, not like it seemed to be for other women. Every decision felt heavy. Was I feeding her enough? Was I too strict? Too soft? The book was my lifeline, a way to quiet the doubts whispering in the back of my mind. Then the doorbell rang. I frowned, setting the book aside. My mother-in-law wasn’t due back for hours. Maybe she’d forgotten something?