The Coat by the Door At thirty-six, I can admit s
At thirty-six, I can admit something I once tried to hide: I was embarrassed by my mother’s coat. It was charcoal gray wool, worn thin at the elbows, cuffs unraveling, two mismatched buttons stitched on years apart. To a teenager desperate to blend in, it looked like a billboard announcing everything we didn’t have. At…
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