My true story. From California.
I visited my millionaire daughter just to say hello. But when the door opened, I froze. She didn’t expect me to see that.
The oranges were still warm from the sun when I picked them. I had chosen the ripest ones, each round and golden, just like I used to when she was a little girl. Back then, she loved the way I peeled them in a spiral, always saving the last piece for her to eat in one bite. I thought—foolish—that she might still remember, that a part of her somewhere beneath the makeup and magazine covers still had room for her mother.
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