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your father will say you are ungrateful. If you remain silent, they will pretend you never existed at all.
So you sit on the cold tile beside your bed, your arm still burning where Doña Carmela’s nails cut your skin, and you stare at the moonlight slipping through the iron bars of the window.
A convent in the mountains of Oaxaca.
That is what she said.continue reading …
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