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I have every letter ever mailed to me, and most that I mailed to others. Every postcard, every photo, every court order and medical transcript, every shred of evidence that it all happened, exactly as described. Including the records pertinent to my teenage marriage.

I’m old enough now to feel generous, even if I will never be nostalgic. I want to believe we were just messed up kids trying to find a home. And I know that concepts like “love” and “forever” rarely survive cancer, or war.


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