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I parked a block away because something inside me was already trying to delay the truth.
Carmen stood near the sofa, one hand resting on her swollen belly, smiling a small, nervous smile while Miguel’s mother, Rosa, touched her stomach with reverence. My own mother, Julia, stood by the kitchen island filling plastic cups with sparkling cider. There were gift bags, tissue paper, tiny boxes, and a cake with pastel frosting. Everything had been arranged carefully. Everything had been planned.
Aunt Elena asked if the nursery was ready. Carmen replied that it was almost done and said Miguel had painted it himself, working on it every weekend.
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