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I couldn’t make myself imagine Dad holding some creamy-faced baby, cooing at it, telling it he loved it. Taking it to baseball games. Living some life he’d probably consider his ‘real life,’ the one he deserved rather than the one he got.
I couldn’t make myself imagine Dad holding some creamy-faced baby, cooing at it, telling it he loved it. Taking it to baseball games. Living some life he’d probably consider his ‘real life,’ the one he deserved rather than the one he got.
