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of her. The edges were soft, the paper yellowed. Rafael recognized it immediately though he had not seen it in thirty years.
His old handwriting.
Marisol placed it on the table.
Rafael stared.
“What is that?” Sophie asked.
“A letter your father wrote me,” Marisol said.
Rafael’s brow furrowed. “I wrote you many letters. None came back.”
“I received three.”
The continue reading …
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