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« I get to be a dad, » he whispered over and over, as though saying it enough times would make it even more real.
Every evening, he would rest his hand on my stomach.
Our daughter wasn’t even big enough to kick yet, but he still talked to her.
« Hey, little peanut, » he’d say.
« I’m your dad. »
« I can’t wait to meet you. »
He planned everything.
He built bookshelves for the nursery.
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