If you ever get married, or go to prom, or graduate college, all that stuff that’s supposed to make a life? There will be an empty chair where your mom was supposed to be. Taking photos, wiping away tears, fixing the hem on your dress. Admiring your diploma. If you ever have a baby, who will tell you all the secrets about fussiness and teething and walking and all that weird and scary stuff? That if you have kids, they might wonder why they don’t have a grandma, just like you used to, before you realized how sad it made your mom, so you stopped asking.
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