I was in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner when I heard the glass shatter. I simultaneously took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and waited for the inevitable outburst.
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Desmond turns to us as we watch television and says, “I want another cat.” His lengthy eleven-year-old body reclines on our worn leather couch, hands clasped behind his head, his elbows spread like wings. After three days, his crying has subsided, and his confident expression suggests he has solved a problem.
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