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She let herself in with the key I’d given her when she was 19 and I’d never asked for back.
She came into the kitchen where I was finally, finally making a proper pineapple from the trees on the south side of the yard, and she stopped in the doorway and breathed in.
“You’re baking,” she said.
“I’ve been meaning to,” I said, “for months.”
She sat at the continue reading …
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