“What are we going to do when we’re not living across the road from you anymore, Agnes? How are we going to survive? Does this mean I’ll have to learn to cook?” It’s a joke, but I don’t miss the fleeting sorrow that flashes through Agnes’s eyes before it’s gone, replaced by something else, something indecipherable. She brushes at the dusting of snow that has settled atop my father’s cross. “You two will do fine, as long as you remember you’re in this together.” “I think we’ve done pretty well at that so far. And we’ve been through a lot.” Since the day I found out that my father would be
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