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I didn’t cry at first. I felt strangely calm. Until Liam approached with a folded piece of paper. —”My mom says you keep letters,” he said. —”Depends on who writes them.” —”I wrote this one.” I opened it. It said, in big, crooked handwriting: “Thank you for giving soup to my great-grandpa. My mom says because of you we got to know him better. I don’t continue reading …
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