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cracking, “I made mistakes.”
I stopped on the steps. “No. A mistake is forgetting an anniversary. You stole from my family, let your mother abuse me, and called it marriage.”
His eyes filled. “Did you ever love me?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s why you had so many chances.”
Six months later, I hosted dinner in my kitchen.
The marble counters gleamed. Fresh flowers continue reading …
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