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done. Not in a cold way. In a finished way. Like a chapter that had ended.
October came—our first anniversary. Zara and I went back to the botanical garden, walked under trees turning gold.
“This has been the best year of my life,” Zara said.
“Despite all the family stuff?” I asked.
“Because of how you handled it,” she corrected. “You chose yourself. You continue reading …
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