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81 My Parents Weren’t Drunks If only they had been, I could recall my father’s hot breath as he stood weaving above the bed and brought his hand close to my face; lingerie and bruises mom wore for my friends, if I’d had any. I’d remember meat loaf and spaghetti decorating wallpaper— a not-so-abstract expressionism— lullabies of breaking glass, an anthem of sobs. I could tell about the longest route possible walking from school, my little heart squeezed in my tiny fist, about folding myself behind cushions. And you could recognize me and say, Welcome home. ...

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