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shifted in Dr. Ortiz’s expression. Respect, maybe. She nodded.
“Room 618. But Ms. Mera, prepare yourself. She may not remember you.”
I walked down the hall. My hands were shaking. Three years, one month, and 20 days since I had seen my daughters’ faces. I pushed open the door to room 618.
Isabelle was in the hospital bed, asleep, IVs in both arms. Her continue reading …
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