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One night, we were eating spaghetti at our wobbly kitchen table.
“Mom?” she said, not looking up.
I felt that in my stomach.
“Well,” I said, “money does make some things easier, but—”
“He says if I lived with him, I’d have my own room and my own bathroom,” she said, cutting me off. “He said I could put a TV on the wall and pick my own bed.
And that they’d hire someone to decorate it for me.”
I looked around our place.
Two bedrooms. One shared bathroom. Peeling paint.
No decorating “plan,” just whatever I could afford from thrift stores and Facebook Marketplace.
“Oh,” I said.
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