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People think rock bottom arrives all at once.
They think it’s the police officer standing at your front door, hat pressed tightly against his chest while asking if your name is Tessa.
They think it’s hearing your father make a sound that doesn’t even sound human anymore.
They think it’s collapsing onto the hallway floor because your brain physically refuses to accept the words car accident.
But they’re wrong.
Real rock bottom comes later.
It comes eight days after your mother dies…
when you look out your kitchen window and see your father standing in the backyard wearing a boutonniere beside your aunt.
Smiling.
Like grief had somehow turned into a wedding invitation.
I was thirty when my mother died.
Her name continue reading …
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