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

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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.”

Emma continue reading …

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