When my son breaks through our front door and runs up the stairs crying in half boy, half man sobs, I just stand where I am in the living room, holding peanut butter in one hand and a book in the other. I have been cleaning up and getting my daughters ready for the evening rituals; this son was not supposed to be coming home anytime soon. Visiting from Long Beach, he was hanging out with one of his best friends for the night….
The essay at Purple Clover
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