The morning of my wedding was characterized by a specific kind of domestic chaos—a sensory overload of clinking porcelain, the chemical tang of hairspray, and the forced, high-pitched merriment of twenty-three people crammed into a space that had suddenly become too small. In the kitchen, people laughed too loudly at jokes that weren’t funny, seeking to fill the silence that usually accompanies high-stakes transitions. Amidst this flurry of expectation and noise, I found my daughter, Lily, in the one place no one thought to look: curled on the cold linoleum of the laundry room floor, tucked between the wall and...
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