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The morning Ava got sick began like every other ordinary weekday, and maybe that’s why the memory still haunts me so badly.
Nothing felt dangerous.
Nothing felt final.
My four-year-old sat at the kitchen counter in pink pajamas swinging her legs while making her stuffed rabbit “talk” to me in a squeaky little voice…. Continue Reading ⬇️
“Mommy,” she announced continue reading …
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