The expulsion was delivered with the casual, practiced indifference of a morning weather report. “Clara, pack your bags.” My mother, Eleanor, didn’t even bother to lift her gaze from the granite countertop. She stood there, mechanically stirring heavy cream into her coffee, the silver spoon clinking against the porcelain. I stood paralyzed in the kitchen archway. I was twenty-five years old, and my body was heavy with the physical toll of being five months pregnant. I wore a faded, oversized army-green t-shirt that used to belong to my husband, my hands wrapped defensively around the slight swell of my stomach....
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