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Weekly Contest #145
I remember the first time I’d seen the once beautiful, crimson sweater. It was when I attended my mother’s funeral, at the ripe age of 11 and a half years old possessing feelings of dejection. I didn’t completely understand the weight of the situation me and my siblings were placed in because my mother died, nor did I know what would happen to us next. However, I do remember the obituaries that were given out that gloomy day; more specifically, I perfectly remembered the cover of that small book. It was a picture of my mother, using her ...
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