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bitter little girl.”
“I’m thirty-three years old, Mom,” I said, hand on the doorknob. “And for the first time in my life, I’m acting like it.”
I walked out, got in my car, and drove away with hands shaking so hard I could barely hold the steering wheel. I didn’t know it then, but I’d just fired the first shot in a war I never wanted to fight. Little continue reading …
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