eighteen years, I knew his footsteps by heart.
Yet his steps sounded wrong.
His movements were slow, weighted down by something he could not yet say, and painfully hesitant.
Still holding my wooden spoon, I turned. Luke stood in the kitchen doorway wearing his gray Kansas City Royals hoodie despite the eighty-five-degree heat. His face was mottled, his eyes swollen and red.
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He had clearly been crying for a long time, not simply wiping away a few tears after a bad
