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I set my fork down, giving up all pretense of eating. “I’m not up to doing the whole traditional—”
“What?” Grace came alive like a crack of lighting had shot through her, her hands slapping the table, her body pressed forward. “We’re skipping Thanksgiving just because Jason’s not here. That’s so not fair!”
Anger rose from every cell in my body, making my retort scorching and scathing. “What’s not fair is your brother stuck in Afghanistan dodging bullets.”
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My heart plunged into the pit of my stomach, chilling me to the core. My eyes widened and blinked rapidly, as if just awakening. Understanding dawned inside me. I looked at my daughter and nodded.
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The tight pout of her mouth softened, and when I moved toward her, she flung herself into my arms. I held her while our tears washed clean the wounds we had inflicted on each other. It was the first time I’d seen her cry since Jason left.
That Thanksgiving, we clasped hands and bowed heads in thanks for our blessings, including that our hardships don’t tear us apart, but only make us stronger.
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1 Comment
What a beautiful story.