Waiting on the snowy curb outside my elementary school, dragging my boot toes through blackened slush, telling myself that if I count to one hundred, Dad will be here. And if not, then by the time I reach two hundred and fifty. Counting and waiting until my mom pulled up, stressed out and still in her work heels, apologizing through the open car window, on his behalf: Sorry, sorry, something came up, I guess. Waiting at the mailbox for birthday cards to show up. Waiting for a phone call on Christmas. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting, for someone who rarely came, feeling worse every time, until
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