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Three months after my mother’s funeral, my father married her sister. I tried to tell myself that grief can push people into choices they’d never otherwise make. But then my brother arrived late to the wedding, pulled me aside, and placed a letter in my hands—one my mother had never meant for me to read.
I believed nothing could hurt more than watching my mother die. I was wrong.

She fought breast cancer for almost three years. Toward the end, she barely had the strength to sit up, yet she still worried about whether I was eating enough, whether my brother Robert was keeping up with his bills, and whether Dad remembered his blood pressure medication.
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