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I couldn't muster the courage to tell him the truth. Because he just would've asked kids the details, and when put into words, the details sound trivial compared to what I felt. The trivial details: Your mother told you to kids date other people. Your mother didn't really understand why we were so serious at such a young age. Your mother didn't understand the look on your face, or mine, when we sat with arms wrapped 'round each other on the sofa in front kids of your TV, safe for the night, the heater blowing warm dust particles here and there. But worst of all, hearing your Mom say these things, you didn't fight. You refused us for the words of a parent, the last person who understood you, the stranger who said you dressed like a tart and that you shouldn't wear your hair so and that you think you're smarter than you are; these words from your mother just masks for her own unhappiness over her own failure in life, masks for the reason she's living in a trailer on a creek where a dead body floated by one Sunday (a story that held me rapt), masks for the
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