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Then June turned to me and said, “You’ll see one day — life gets harder as you grow up.” She had a tear in her eye, and I tried to comfort her with a smile, my face belying my lack of emotional ability to connect.
The moment passed as quickly as it came, and even though it stays with me now, it made no dent then.
June straightened up and poured herself some water, and the window was shut.
Once, we spent a week in Florida, at June’s mother’s house.
He’d moved away and on with a new life — also filled with drug and health challenges — and we talked very rarely.
We embodied that perfectly normal sort of suburban life — the spoils at Christmas; we’d dressed up when our grandparents came to visit; Catholic sermons; long, languid days spent swimming in the sea.The house was dark and lonely and quiet, and I could see June struggle with a lack of closeness to her own mother.