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“You chose this life, Mother. I didn’t. Good luck. Don’t get eaten by a bear.” I beam at her. She doesn’t want me to get eaten by a bear.
I want her to know she’s strong enough to do hard things. But you have to do the hard things before you know you’re strong enough.
I’ll be damned if I’ll let another man—even a man who’s hotter than the Deep South in August—ever again make me feel less than because I have emotions.
“Definitely a pixie cut. And if you truly hate it, it’ll grow back in another three or four years. What’s three or four years of learning to love your hair again in the grand scheme of things?”
Once I realized the biggest thing wrong with me was that I was married to a man who thought there was something wrong with me, it was damn easy to figure out what I needed to do to solve my problem, even if executing that plan was one of the hardest things I’ve done in my life.
“But I can’t stop thinking about you.” “I’m very think-aboutable,” I joke.
“I have a way with balls,” Junie announces. She blinks, her face goes redder than a tomato, and Flint and I both rush in to save her at the exact same time. “She’s such a great soccer player,” I say too loudly. Flint, unfortunately, takes a different tactic. “She’s the ball whisperer.”
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