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  • I can't recall the last time I was called Mommy.

    For years, the word made me turn. It came for me daily, dressed in endless masks. Called in a store, screamed in sleep. It tugged, whining, at my elbows. The best was the sigh, half-dreaming on my chest, heating my heart.

    And then, thunk, it got chopped into Mom.

    One day, the Mommy in me was gone and I didn't notice until now.
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