On Father’s Day, I drove six hours back to the house I grew up in, carrying with me a tray of my mother’s lemon bars, a carefully chosen World War II biography, and a handwritten card that took me ten years to write.
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On Father’s Day, I drove six hours back to the house I grew up in, carrying with me a tray of my mother’s lemon bars, a carefully chosen World War II biography, and a handwritten card that took me ten years to write.
Continue reading…
