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the house would smell like home.
“Sit on the couch,” I told Ethan. “I’m making you something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry, Grandma.”
“I didn’t ask if you were hungry. I said I’m making you something.”
He managed a weak smile and collapsed onto the brown fabric sofa—old but comfortable, purchased at a secondhand market fifteen years ago.
I went to the kitchen continue reading …
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