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very old.
My mother looked up at me with a softness that had arrived too late to be mercy.
“Alyssa.”
That was all she said.
Just my name.
But the way she said it contained a whole late scramble of meanings—don’t leave, don’t make this final, don’t become someone I can no longer narrate.
I looked at her, then at my father, then at Brooke.
Brooke’s mascara continue reading …
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