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92

Camila

When I was a kid, brushing my hair always brought me comfort. Doing it before bed was a ritual that started before I knew what the word even meant. I’d sit on my mattress, my knees tucked beneath, music piping gently in the background, and throw my hair over my shoulder. Mom used to do it for me. She was patient—which was rare—as she ran the boar-bristled brush over my thick locks until they glowed like honey in the sun.

I wish she was here to do it for me now.

Mom, I hope you’re okay.

Stroking the brush down to the tips of my hair, I try to let it relax me, but it’s not working. It was a long shot, all things considered. Too much terrible stuff has happened in such a short time. If I could just brush it away, it would be a miracle. People like me never get those.

A soft tap comes at my door, and a moment later, I hear Asher’s voice on the other side.

“Camila?”

Sitting up, I drop my feet to the floor. What could he want at this hour? I have an idea, but I don’t know if I’m read
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Comments (1)
goodnovel comment avatar
Coco
Yes it should, motherhood is a wonderful thing
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