Mother And Daughter Quotes

“You grew up too fast, baby."

Didn't always feel that way, especially this morning when I couldn't find my other flip-flop and I'd been, like, two seconds from kicking a fit.”
― Jennifer L. Armentrout, Opal

“My dad once told me that Winstone Churchill said that Russia was riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. According to my dad, Churchill had been talking about my mother. This was before the divorce, and he said it half-bitterly, half-respectfully. Because even when he hated her, he admired her.

I think he would have stayed with her forever, trying to figure out the mystery. He was a puzzle solver, the kind of person who likes theorems, theories. X always had to equal something. It couldn't just be X.

To me, my mother wasn't that mysterious. She was my mother. Always reasonable, always sure of herself. To me, she was about as mysterious as a glass fo water. She knew what she wanted; she knew what she didn't want. And that was to be married to my father. I wasn't sure if it was that she fell our of love or if it was that she just never was. in love, I mean.”
― Jenny Han, The Summer I Turned Pretty

“"Mom, Arnie Welsh keeps calling me a geek. He says it like it's a bad thing. Is being a geek a bad thing?"

"Of course not, Soda Pop. And don't listen to labels. They don't matter."

"What are labels?"

"It's an imaginery sticker people slap on you with the word they think you are written on it. It doesn't matter who they think you are. It matters who you think you are."

"I think I might be a geek."

She laughed. "Then you be a geek. Just be whatever makes you happy, Soda Pop, and I'll be happy too.”
― Samantha Young, Before Jamaica Lane

“Miranda rolls her eyes. "Passing over," she says. "That's nice. Is that anything like kicking the bucket? Keeling over, taking a dirt nap, biting the big one?”
― Kelly Braffet, Last Seen Leaving

“The students adore your father,' a perfumed woman said to me. 'Aren't you lucky to live with such a charming man!'
'He's even more charming at home,' Mom said. 'Isn't he, Bea? He rides a unicycle through the house -'
'- even up and down the stairs,' I added.
'He juggles eggs as he makes breakfast every morning -'
'- which he serves to us in bed of course,' I said.
'- and pulls fragrant bouquets out of his ass,' Mom finished.
'He's just a joy.”
― Natalie Standiford, How to Say Goodbye in Robot

“Of course, my mother is her own person. Of course, she contains multitudes. She reacts in ways that surprise me, in part, simply because she isn't me. I forget this and relearn it anew because it's a lesson that doesn't, that can't stick. I knew her only as she is defined against me, in her role as my mother, so when I see her as herself, like when she gets catcalled on the street, there's dissonance. When she wants for me things that I don't want for myself--Christ, marriage, children--I am angry that she doesn't understand me, doesn't see me as my own, separate person, but that anger stems from the fact that I don't see her that way either. I want her to know what I want the same way I know it, intimately, immediately, I want her to get well because I want her to get well, and isn't that enough? My first thought, the year my brother died and my mother took to bed, was that I needed her to be mine again, a mother as I understood it. And when she didn't get up, when she lay there day in and day out, wasting away, I was reminded that I didn't know her, not wholly and completely. I would never know her.”
― Yaa Gyasi, Transcendent Kingdom

“And Ethan? That boy lived in his own little wonderland, convinced he could save the world one organic radish at a time.”
― Stella Sinclaire, Fertile Ground for Murder

“How can someone who's stood by you your whole life – who helped you empty the contents of the kitchen bin onto the floor when you were seventeen because you accidentally threw away a piece of hash the size of a cocoa nib, or who accompanied you, when she was eighty years old, to the Southbank Cinema on Mother's Day to watch hardcore gay and lesbian sex films because no one else would go with you (ditto a Sparks concert at the Royal Festival Hall) – how can that person, who you've been through so much with and who is now lying in front of you with snow-white hair, pale-grey eyes, soft pink skin and worry lines, not be beautiful?”
― Viv Albertine, To Throw Away Unopened

“Her mother was peaceful. She was calm. The sight filled Alice with the kind of green hope she found at the bottom of rock pools at low tide but never managed to cup in her hands.
The more time she spent with her mother in the garden, the more deeply Alice understood- from the tilt of Agnes's wrist when she inspected a new bud, to the light that reached her eyes when she lifted her chin, and the thin rings of dirt that encircled her fingers as she coaxed new fern fronds from the soil- the truest parts of her mother bloomed among her plants. Especially when she talked to the flowers. Her eyes glazed over and she mumbled in a secret language, a word here, a phrase there as she snapped flowers off their stems and tucked into her pockets.
Sorrowful remembrance, she'd say as she plucked a bindweed flower from its vine. Love, returned. The citrusy scent of lemon myrtle would fill the air as she tore it from a branch. Pleasures of memory. Her mother pocketed a scarlet palm of kangaroo paw.”
― Holly Ringland, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

“Other girls- our friends’ daughters, my friends when I was a girl, your sisters, were all so merry and sociable. You… were always so quiet. You never joined in, never participated in any activities, and I never knew how to make you feel as if you could. As if you were welcome. So I suppose that embarrassed me. I knew that it was my failure. That I could not give you whatever it was that you needed to be happy. That’s what made me ashamed. Because I never really knew how to be your mother. With your sisters, I could be myself. I could talk about dresses, and suitors, and we could do one another’s hair. You never wanted any of that.”
― Fran Laniado, Beautiful

“When I drew pictures of Mother and me, I used Peach for her and Chestnut for myself. "Why is your skin named after something soft and sweet and mine is something hard and bitter?" "Because you are so much tougher," she said. I thought that was a very good answer. And maybe it's true. But I am forced to be tough.”
― Jael Richardson, Gutter Child

“It may not be clear now or ever, but take comfort in this, the Lord has your future and our family’s future in His hands,' Mama said, cupping Aria’s face. 'My little songbird. He treasures you far more than the birds of the air. Trust that He knows what is best.”
― Grace Hitchcock, Hearts of Gold Collection

“I loved my mother like I love the moon—for just existing. Despite all her scars and changes, despite her cyclical darkness, she couldn’t help but mirror the light of life itself.”
― Robin Brown, Glitter Saints: The Cosmic Art of Forgiveness, a Memoir

“Do you want some help?" said Anouk, watching me bring out the big glass jars of raisins and cherries and sprinkles and nuts to decorate the mendiants.
I smiled. "Of course. My favorites."
It has been a long time since Anouk wanted to help me make chocolates. Now she does, as a child might play with her favorite toys for one last time before putting them aside for ever. Almonds, candied lemon peel, fat black cherries, green cardamom, and a sprinkle of edible gold to highlight the rich dark chocolate. Once sold by travelers door-to-door, these are kings and queens of the road, gilded, glossy and glorious.
"I made mine into faces," she said.
I smiled at her. "You always did.”
― Joanne Harris, The Strawberry Thief

“I feared that you were the destined heir to the Secret Scroll because of the prophecy."
"What prophecy?" Catty hated the tremor that had crept into her voice.
"Only the child of a fallen goddess and an evil spirit will inherit the Scroll, Zoe recited.
Catty's heart sunk. Her mother was a Follower, her father an evil member of the Inner Circle. She suddenly felt damned. How could she overcome such a birthright?
Zoe took Catty's hand. "You must never worry that you are evil because of your heritage. The manuscript can only be given to someone with a pure heart and the strength to fight the Atrox.”
― Lynne Ewing, The Secret Scroll

“My mother rebelled, cautiously and craftily, as thwarted women will. She gave me lessons in the stolen time while Father was away at business. I remember her standing before me in a bluebell-striped dress, her tired face suddenly shining as she opened A Ladies Instructor For Painting Diverse Delights, so we might copy its hand-colored plates. "Grace, you have a fine eye," Mother said. I wanted to dissect the heart of my subjects, to catch the shadow of the wilting rose in cadmium red, and conjure the snow tumbling like thistledown outside the window in washes of cerulean blue. One day, when painting the gleaming sphere of an apple, a black wriggling creature punctured the skin from the inside. Mother was bemused that I carried on painting, recording the creature's ugly pointed head and shiny segments. "That is the truth," I insisted, proud of my picture.”
― Martine Bailey, A Taste for Nightshade

“Wendy still enjoyed it when Mrs. Darling included her in some of her "feminine rituals," which usually involved the proper application of powders and creams, tips on how to polish her nails, or ideas for sprucing up an old bow. She loved it when they had enough extra house money to go for a fancy tea out at Saxelbrees, just the two of them. Wendy would admire her mother smiling and laughing beneath her many-times-renewed hat, and would think once again that she was the most beautiful mother in the world. She wondered when she herself would attain that delicate beauty, confidence, and perfection of manner.”
― Liz Braswell, Straight On Till Morning

“A mother-daughter bond is the perfect blessing, so that makes me one blessed mom, because I have YOU.”
― Stephanie Lahart

“By now both mother and daughter were in a good humor and able to joke, mother sat up in bed and chuckled from time to time; they were temperamentally akin and shared the blessed ability to suppress dark memories.”
― Knut Hamsun, The Women at the Pump

“You make me merry, dear daughter.”
― Lori Nelson Spielman, The Life List

“I will never grow tired of the scent of lavender in my kitchen," Elsie had said, pressing her herb-infused fingers to her face. "It smells of contentment, doesn't it?" Contentment was a hard thing to come by for Elsie, so any mention of it had made hope blossom inside Nellie's chest. Elsie began to sing, and Nellie joined in- their voices blending as pleasantly in the small kitchen as the lemon rind and lavender buds within the muffin mixture.
Their frequent cooking sessions in those days weren't only an education in home economics; they were also a housewifery training program passed from mother to daughter. Elsie taught Nellie how to make her own bread yeast, and why one should add a dash of oatmeal to soups (to thicken it), and how vinegar keeps boiling cauliflower pristinely white. And underpinning those lessons was Elsie's wish for Nellie to marry a good man, unlike the one she herself committed to. They lived modestly, without luxuries, but Elsie's love for Nellie was as bountiful as her gardens. "You have been my greatest joy," Elsie would murmur to Nellie when she tucked her into bed, kissing her on the forehead, on her cheeks, her eyelids, smelling of roses and dusty baking flour. "My greatest joy.”
― Karma Brown, Recipe for a Perfect Wife

“You know very well that no one can enter the heart of another and become as one, not even for the shortest moment. Even your mother only made you flesh, and at your first breath you breathed in solitude”
― Annemarie Schwarzenbach, Morte na Pérsia

“Who's your friend?" Zoe asked Stanton. She glanced at Catty's moon amulet and then her eyes bore into Catty's.
"Zoe," Stanton said. "I want you to meet your daughter."
Zoe glanced at Stanton in disbelief, then stared at Catty in openmouthed wonder. Her hand reached out and caressed Catty's cheek, touched her lips, and smoothed back her hair. "I see your father in your face," she uttered more to herself than to Catty. Then a slight smile crossed her lips. "I give you away and you return to me the same day. At least I know you do make it safely into the future." She started to embrace Catty.”
― Lynne Ewing, The Secret Scroll

“But she herself had never felt that way about anyone, not as a teenager, not in art school, not since. It occurred to her that except for her brother, when they were children, she’d never seen a man naked. More than that: she’d never touched anyone and felt that warmth, that electric tension at the nearness of someone else. The only thing that had given her that feeling had been art—and then, of course, Pearl.”
― Celeste Ng, Little Fires Everywhere

“I wait by the bed. I move into her line of vision and it’s as though we’re watching one another, my mother and me; two women – trapped. Quote from The Memory”
― Judith Barrow, The Memory

“On either side of the laneway, rain-soaked bushes burst into a flurry of white flowers. Alice's first breaths were filled with lightning and the scent of storm lilies in bloom.
You were the true love I needed to wake me from a curse, Bun, her mother would say to finish the story. You're my fairytale.”
― Holly Ringland, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

“In the mirror that holds both of us, my dark hair shadows her fair, and there, I observe her reflected scowl at her mother: a real little girl.”
― Doireann Ní Ghríofa, A Ghost in the Throat

“Emeline...?"
Her mother's voice was no longer a rasp, but a soft, quivering thing.
Emeline spun to find the Vile behind her, glimmering like a mirage. The air shone, delicate as a cobweb, then changed.
Like a butterfly abandoning its chrysalis, the Vile before her fell away, until a monster stood before Emeline no longer. In the monster's place was a middle-aged woman, beautiful as the moon. Her raven-dark hair fell in waves around her shoulders, her eyes were the bright blue of robins' eggs, and down her body spilled a silk dress the color of storm clouds.
Emeline let out a shaky breath.
"Mama?"
Rose Lark dropped the knife and the sharpening stone. They hit the soft earth with a thud. The roots of the cavern immediately grew over them, pulling both blade and stone deep into the earth where they couldn't be retrieved.
Staring at her daughter, Rose took a hesitant step before lifting shaky fingers to Emeline's face.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered as tears trembled down her pale cheeks.
Emeline shook her head furiously, reaching for her. "It wasn't your fault." She wrapped her arms around her mother's frail shoulders, pulling her close. Her hair smelled sweet, like rosewater. Her thin body shook like a sapling in a gale.
Weeping, Rose held her daughter tightly, as if, this time, she didn't intend to let go.”
― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood

“Yo sentía remordimientos por haberla hecho nacer de mí, por haberla condenado a llevar mi herencia. Así, empecé a llorar con una debilitada tristeza de que por mi culpa aquella cosa gimiente pudiese llegar a ser una mujer algún día.”
― Carmen Laforet, Nada

“Looking into my daughter’s eyes, I thought of my mother, who had faced these first hours alone after I was born. She had been made no promises, been offered no guarantees that either she or I would even live past that night. If something had been ruptured inside of her, no one would have noticed. If something had been broken inside of newborn me, perhaps no one but my mother would have cared. My daughter’s quiet yet well-monitored first night was perhaps the one my mother had dreamed for me, for herself, a dream of kind words, kisses, flowers.”
― Edwidge Danticat, Brother, I'm Dying