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My Husband Burned My Hand on the Stove

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had practiced finding that switch in the dark.

A hundred times, maybe more. Standing at the island chopping onions, I’d let my hand drift down and tap the small recessed button. Vacuuming. Loading the dishwasher. Pretending to drop a napkin. Muscle memory built one ordinary motion at a time, because I knew that when the moment came, I would not be thinking continue reading …

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