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he regarded most things that nourished me but didn’t interest him: indulgently, from a distance.
“That your little mom-journal thing?” he asked once, scrolling his phone while I folded onesies on the living room rug.
“It’s a blog.”
He nodded without looking up.
“Right.”
What he meant was: not real.
The first person who treated me as though what I was carrying continue reading …
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