But some wounds arrive dressed as small things.
A door closing quietly.
A chair pulled away from a table.
A name disappearing from a conversation where it had once belonged.
The chat had been called Family Weekend.
Carlos had created it years ago, after José died, when the children started using my farm the way some people use a public park—freely, loudly, and without much thought for who swept the porch after they left. At first, I liked the group. I truly did. I liked the little messages.
Mom, we’re coming Friday.
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