hand closed over mine. Family is who shows up. The recording ended. Neither of us spoke. Leaves moved across the path. A couple walked past holding hands. Somewhere near the library entrance, a little girl was trying to balance along the edge of the flower bed while her father followed behind. I thought about family. For most of my childhood, I had believed the word meant obligation. People you accepted because they were assigned to you. People whose disappointments you carried because blood gave them priority. People you waited for.
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