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”
She wiped flour from her hands—she’d been baking—then hugged me, her apron dusting my shirt with powder.
“I knew you would,” she said, eyes shining. “You’re my pride, Calvin.”
We celebrated with spaghetti I cooked a little too soft and a batch of cookies she handled herself. It was a simple dinner, but it felt like a feast.
PART 7: THE FINAL LESSON
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