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Kindle Notes & Highlights
When she opens the bathroom cabinet and reaches for the conditioner, I spy the breast pump on the shelf. She says I need to use it a few times a day because my stupid, insensitive body is producing milk for a baby it killed.
The grief appears in waves and I can’t control when or why I start crying. Like now. I’m suddenly overcome with emotion and start to weep again.
I think I’m beginning to prefer the blur because it hurts less.
