“Sweetheart…” I continue and slide my hand over her cheek. There’s quiet devastation in her eyes, and I hate it, too. I hate that I’ve put it there. “I’m fifteen years too old for you. I’ve got kids, a job that keeps me too busy, and nothing else to offer. You’ve got everything in front of you. An entire beautiful future.” “So do you,” she says. There’s a furrow between her brows, the stubborn refusal that I’ve come to learn is one of her defining traits. It’s restrained, but it’s there, her spine made of steel. “No, I don’t. You just said you want kids. I’ve already had mine. I’ve done all
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