Mom is in the kitchen, leaning over the sink. Shards of glass litter it, still dripping with red wine, but I zero in instantly on the blood running down her palm. “Mom?” I can’t keep the crack of fear out of my voice. She looks at me with tears running down her cheeks. Her mascara, which was messy to begin with, is smudged. She winces as she pulls a piece of glass out of her palm. “Jesus.” I hurry over and grab a dishcloth, wrapping her hand in it and pressing down. She surprises me by pulling me into a fierce hug. She hasn’t hugged me like this, cheek to cheek, in a while. “Bex,” she
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