Life isn’t always like one of those stories.” “I know,” I said, still staring over that beautiful field. “But…stories say something. About us, and about where we came from. They’re a reminder that we have a past, a history. And a future.” When I was growing up, Gran-Gran’s stories had been my shield. Against the names I was called, against the things people said about my father. Against my own terror that all those things—particularly the ones about me—were true. In the stories, there was a sense of justice. Everything had a purpose; every little bit meant something. I thought if those heroes
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