Every storyhas a first page. Ours wasn’t writtenwith grand speechesor dramatic beginnings. It was writtenwith a five-year-old’s smile, a sleeping newborn, and a mothertrying to memorizeevery tiny detailbefore time could steal it away. If I’d knownhow quickly little hands grow,how swiftly babies become boys, I might have held my breatha little longer. But maybe that’s…

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