Photo credit: Amber Marlow
My entire childhood library was overflowing with stories about little kids whose parents had died or were assholes.
Anne of Green Gables,
Matilda,
Pippi Longstocking, even
Harriet the Spy had absent dickhole parents. At the time, I LOVED THIS. As someone who raised herself, loved loved loved words, and deeply needed to feel seen amidst the competing backdrops of perfect families I couldn’t relate to, it was unbelievably healing to find solace in those books.
As I’ve gotten older though, I’ve started to find the genre kind of objectively bizarre...