Sitting beside my squirrelly seven year old, I helped him sound out long-vowel words and watched the clock, the seconds flying past. At eight-thirty in the morning, I was at the kitchen sink, swirling yesterday’s coffee grounds out of the French press and into my compost bucket. Time spun and circled down the garbage disposal…

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“O M W,” he texts me. It would have been cryptic and uncrackable if he hadn’t just warned us. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way,” he had said, his eyes flashing excitement, hair freshly-cut, the ring safely tucked away. “They’re on their way,” I called out to Mark, Daniel, and Morgan. Grabbing my…

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