She was wearing a cream silk lounge set and carrying the kind of annoyed expression people usually reserve for small inconveniences—traffic, a delayed reservation, a loud television in the next room.
Not for a nine-year-old child hanging on by a thread.
She took one look at me, one look at Carolina, and rolled her eyes.
“Oh good, you’re home early,” she said. “Your daughter has been impossible all day.”
I have replayed that sentence more times than I can count.
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