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red the news: my father was gone. My world tilted, and the only person I
e," I choked out. Her response? A cold rustle of indifference, then "Mark is here. We're busy." Mark Davis, her c
to fund her piano dreams, celebrating her every triumph and consoling every frustration-all for this. I w
, unfamiliar cologne hung in our bedroom, in our bed. Her text arrived: Sorry about your dad. Things got a little crazy here. Call you tomorrow. Then, a group chat notificat
certainty. I had been a bandage for her old wounds. Now that the wound-causer was back, I was
ted pa
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