After my divorce, I did not leave with much. Just a cracked phone that barely held a charge, two trash bags stuffed with clothes I did not even like anymore, and one thing I had never planned to let go of: my grandmother’s old necklace. The miscarriage had already hollowed me out when, a week later, my ex-husband abandoned me for a younger mistress, ensuring I had absolutely nothing to fall back on. For weeks, I ran entirely on instinct. I picked up extra shifts at the diner, serving coffee and cleaning tables until my feet ached, counting every single...
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