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1 " She was my mother. Never before this had I looked at her and thought of her as someone separate, as someone else. Now, so near to her that I could smell the subtle scent of her perfume and see the clear, faint texture of her skin, I realized for the first time that I was looking at another human being who was complete within herself. She was my mother, but she was more than just a loving and convenient extension of me and my needs. "
― Florence Engel Randall, ,
2 " How can you stop mourning the missing? "