“Josh,” I begin. “Because he lives here?” He raises his eyes from the table. “Right?” Every word is like a little tiny dagger in my heart. I should’ve just told him that his father was dead. That would’ve made things so much easier. I could have made up some wonderful story about how his father was a hero who died, I don’t know, trying to save a puppy from a fire. He would’ve been happy with that. Maybe if I told him the puppy fire story, the kids wouldn’t have bullied him last year. “Honey,” I say, “your dad used to live here, but now he doesn’t. Not anymore.” I can’t quite read the
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