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  • We are rushing. I am driving a bit too fast because we’re trying to get to the top of the hill in front of the middle school so that we can better see the sunset.

    It is a clear December twilight, cool but not cold. She sits in the backseat commenting on the vivid colors—especially the vivid pinks, which are her favorites.

    She is eight years old, and I love her so much my heart feels like it might explode when I stop to really think about it.

    We manage to park and leap out of the car just in time to catch the last two minutes before the sun disappears behind the tree line.

    Her beauty outshines the closest star. Her kindness and empathy stuns me. She is my daughter, and at this moment, I am the luckiest mother in the world.
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