When the Eight-Year-Old Boy We Were Adopting Came Home With Everything He Owned in a Black Bag—Then My Missing Brother’s Watch Fell Onto His Bed
“Thanks, Mom.”
By then, the word was ordinary.
That was its beauty.
“Call.”
“I will.”
“Actually call.
Texting me a thumbs-up does not qualify as communication.”
“Yes, Mom.”
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