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the kitchen. Four women’s voices, similar and different, weaving through steam and clattering plates.
“I don’t know whether they’ll ever love me,” Marisol said.
Rafael leaned on the porch railing. “Maybe don’t start there.”
“Where should I start?”
“By loving them without needing proof you’ll get something back.”
She absorbed that.
Then she whispered, “I continue reading …
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