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My father was the one subject that didn’t exist in our house.
There were no photographs.
No stories.
No old birthday cards tucked away in drawers.
Nothing.
I’d asked questions when I was little.
When I became a teenager, I stopped asking.
Eventually, I convinced myself I didn’t care.
What difference would it make to know someone who’d never wanted to know me?
If I’d inherited these ears from him, he could keep the rest too.
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