At My Purple Heart Ceremony, My Stepmother Swung a Folding Chair Into My Arm—Then My Father Looked Down Instead of Protecting Me
Laid them across towels on my bedroom floor.
One notebook warped permanently.
For years I kept it.
Not because I wanted a trauma artifact.
Because it still worked.
Eventually that notebook ended up in the box Charles returned.
The page where teenage me wrote:
I wish she cared less
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