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effort and anger.
“You will again.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” I admitted. “I don’t. But I know you’re working.”
She turned away. “I hate her.”
I did not correct her.
A therapist might have. A better person might have. I was her mother, and I knew hate sometimes arrives as proof that the injured part of you still believes it deserved safety.
“I know,” I continue reading …
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