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in the doorway, holding a basket of laundry. She is the kind of teenage girl who notices everything.
“Mom?” she asked softly. Her eyes shifted to her father. “Dad, are you going somewhere?”
I answered before he could.
“Go check if George washed his hands, sweetheart.”
“Mom…”
“Margot, please.”
She hesitated, then walked away with the basket. I could hear continue reading …
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