Behind the Venue, My Husband Handed Me a Scrapbook Pulled From the Dumpster

glitter. In the next photograph her mother held up a child’s drawing with obvious and entirely unperformed pride. Barbara’s hands trembled slightly on the album pages.

“Every terrible thing I made,” Barbara said, “my mother kept. She put them on the walls and the mantel and the fridge. She told anyone who visited that her daughter had made them.”

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