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I almost ignored it.
But something in me was tired of letting other people decide which conversations I was strong enough to have.
I answered.
“Hi, Mom.”
She was crying.
Not the controlled dining-room kind.
The messy kind.
“Mara,” she said, “your father left.”
I froze.
“What do you mean, left?”
“He packed a bag. He said he couldn’t stay in a house where everyone continue reading …
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