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The washer and dryer. The knives. The espresso machine Christina had admired last Christmas and then tried to hint I should give her because “you barely entertain.”
The frames on the walls. The brass floor lamp in the den. The Le Creuset Dutch oven my mother had once referred to as “ours” because she had borrowed it twice.
If they were going to try to turn me into a ghost in my own life, I wanted every line drawn in ink. By eight-thirty, the house looked normal enough that nobody watching from the outside would have guessed a family coup had failed before breakfast. My parents moved around quietly.
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