It is hot – so hot. The sort of heat that seeps through your clothes to your skin, drips down your scalp, and makes you want to scratch, an itch that won’t stop. I wipe the back of my hand on my
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“How do I look?” “You look fine, honey.” “Is it fine or beautiful?” “You look like a mom,” he said. “Are you sure?” “Yes. I’m sure.” Lillian Ratcliff fluttered about the nursery as if a butterfly had taken possession of her body.
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