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Weekly Contest #348
I have no memories of my father from when I was a child. He was only an ominous presence behind a locked door, a threat my mother touted when I couldn’t keep my tongue in check. He must have been there, at least, I remember silver-covered trays on the floor of his hallway, the lid sometimes askew, a bit of lettuce stark on a white plate. And there was, of course, the bell in the library which told me when to leave the room so that Father could come in. It was never strange to me. I never thought to linger or spy, I didn’t need to know. I did...
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