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My father texted me, ‘To us, you’re already dead,’ and I only replied,

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feel awkward. I thought I would feel nothing. Instead, my body recognized something my mind had not been allowed to know.

Not home.

Not yet.

But origin.

We sat for three hours. She brought a folder too. Hospital bracelets. Old forms. A photo of herself at nineteen holding me in a yellow blanket. A newspaper clipping about the clinic investigation that continue reading …

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