I was seven the morning a dollhouse appeared on our porch, wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper like it had blown in on a quiet wind. My parents were as startled as I was. Dad decided it had to be a family friend with a soft spot and a workshop; Mom just kept touching the tiny windows as if they might be warm. I believed in magic then, so I decided Santa did it—off-season, secretive, and a little mischievous. The house had a red roof, floral wallpaper no bigger than my thumbnail, and a backyard swing fashioned from a bent paperclip and...
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