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the edge of her bed.
“No, baby. You are not the reason anyone is sad.”
“But Grandma said I was her angel. Did I stop being her angel?”
I put my hand on her cheek.
She was warm.
She smelled like lavender soap and toothpaste.
She was asking me a question no seven-year-old should have to ask.
“You are always an angel,” I said. “But some people use that word continue reading …
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