The night my daughter shoved my suitcase onto the pavement, I thought the rain would break me. It poured in sheets, soaking my hair, my clothes, my very bones. But it wasn’t the storm that cut deepest.
It was her words.
My mascara streaked down my cheeks, but I didn’t wipe it away. I simply stood there, water pooling at my shoes, staring at the daughter I once carried in my arms. She had just won ten million dollars in the state lottery. And now she looked at me as if I were nothing more than an unwanted guest.
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