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He laughed and squeezed my shoulder, but his eyes flicked to a leather folder he’d set on the dresser. His fingers tapped on it twice before he tucked it under his arm again.
A look passed between them.
« What’s in the folder? »
« Nothing, love. Boring paperwork from the venue. »
Peter knocked on the doorframe behind him, beaming, all big-brother energy in his charcoal tux.
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When my son laughed at our waiter with Down syndrome, I didn't yell. I didn't punish him. I simply took him home and told…