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would have. I could have held her tears. Her composure was something else, something I did not know how to reach through.
One evening I sat on the edge of her bed while she held a book open without reading it.
“You can talk to me,” I said.
“I know.”
“Are you angry?”
“A little.”
“At Dad?”
She looked up at me. “At both of you.”
It stung, and she knew it would,continue reading …
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