She was the one who didn’t miss him now. She had stopped longing for him, slowly, over the years he left her alone in that dilapidated house in Brooklyn. Penelope was different. You couldn’t leave a daughter behind; she was yours no matter where you were. And although she didn’t know what they would do if they were ever together again—they weren’t the kind to talk or laugh, or even sit beside each other for long—she still craved her girl, as unthinkingly as a seabird longs for the sea. The house hadn’t been ready before. But with the new paintings hung, the custom furniture in place, the
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