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a mortgage, Sasha’s college books, Elliot’s preschool, and a dishwasher that sounded like it was ready to give up.
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a mortgage, Sasha’s college books, Elliot’s preschool, and a dishwasher that sounded like it was ready to give up.
But I was turning forty-five, and I wanted one quiet dinner where I didn’t grill chicken or scrape macaroni off a plastic plate.
“Where are we going?” she asked as I drove.
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