son. Eighteen years old. Six-foot-two. Dark hair, gray-green eyes, a dimple in his left cheek.
Looking closely, I could not find a single facial feature that belonged to the man knocking at our door.
Yet he had inherited every familiar habit.
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The way he rubs his forehead when he’s stressed. The way he hums when he cooks. The way he says buddy to every dog he meets. The way he laughs with his whole body, throwing his head back.
Every
