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tea and sat in her rocker by the window.
My phone rang after a while. My mother, tentative.
“He’s been different since you went to see him,” she said. “Quieter. He asked me to pick up hydrangea bulbs for the spring.”
“Good,” I said. “She always liked hydrangeas.”
A pause. Then: “Would you come for Sunday dinner? I know it’s soon. You don’t have to. But continue reading …
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