Thursday night, I take my mother’s ashes to the woods and try to put her in the earth. Just like ten years ago, I can’t. Olu rubs soothing circles over my back and takes me home again, and the way he holds me in my bed should make me happy—but all I can think is that it should be our bed. There should be an our bed and there never will be. I want to punch Henry’s smug face in; I want to roar at every villager who looks right through me; I want to shake the ones who watch me as if I’m a rabid dog. I want to burn the woods Mum used to love, because I walk through them now and I can’t even see
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