Her little face stayed serious in the thin winter light, her boots dangling above the old radiator that clanked every morning like it had opinions.
“That’s what I thought too,” she whispered. “But Mom said it to Daddy. She said, ‘One week until Christmas, and then Mom will be gone.’”
Those words landed on my skin like frost.
I tried to smooth them away the way you smooth a wrinkle out of fabric.
“You must’ve misheard, honey.”
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