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Sometimes being a mother is like death by a thousand cuts.
Denialitis.
She’s changed so much in the months since I’ve seen her. She appears shrunken, her long gray hair thin and scraggly, her cheeks pale. A crone, that’s what I think of when I see her. A woman who’s more dead than alive.
Secrets are just unspoken lies, after all. Underneath everything, I’m just another liar.
